


This Budding Rose

by Della19



Series: This Rose [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baby is his. The problem is no one but him remembers that. Now Gold has to make the true love he once rejected fall for him again, and he is still a difficult man to love. Belle/Rumpelstiltskin baby AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Seriously.

[](http://s1242.photobucket.com/albums/gg521/Della1919/?action=view&current=BuddingRose.jpg)

Chapter 1: The Road Not Taken

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_And when our baby stirs and struggles to be born it compels humility: what we began is now its own._

Margaret Mead

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It happens because of forgotten keys.

Later, Emma will think of the sheer random chance of it all, and wonder at the capricious nature of fate.  Surely, there is a universe where she leaves the keys, goes for ice cream with Henry and doesn’t look back.  Perhaps, even more than one. 

But here, now, something –a feeling that she will never be able to truly explain- whispers for her to go back to the station for her forgotten keys.

And Emma, who’s learned through a life of misfortunes, that one’s gut is to be trusted, leaves Henry with Mary Margaret, and goes back.

Turns left. Takes the path less traveled by.

Naturally, it makes all the difference.

Fucking Robert Frost.

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Emma stands, keys in hand, heart in her throat, hidden in the shadows of the station, all thoughts of ice cream gone, and tries to breathe.  Tries to process what she’s just heard, whispered in Gold’s dragon drawl and Regina’s snake whisper, and even as does she knows she will fail.

_Tell me your name._

_Rumpelstiltskin._

_Your majesty._

It’s impossible; it should be impossible.  Rumpelstiltskin and the Evil Queen are stories, a tale from Henry’s book, and even if they weren’t they wouldn’t be duking it out in small town _Maine_ , over a cup.  A cup with a chip in it.

It would be crazy to even consider it.

And yet. 

And yet, if there are concrete truths in this world, than these are them; Mr. Gold, for all his faults and sharp edges, is unfortunately not insane.

And Regina, is lying.

She told Henry it was her superpower; this lie detection thing, and although that was a just a turn of phrase designed to make her kid smile at her, the truth is she really does a have sixth sense for lies.  Honed through a life of hard knocks and taking care of herself, it’s a skill that serves her well and hasn’t led her astray yet.

It’s also why she’s covertly following Regina out of the station, when by all rights she should be storming into that cell and demanding that Gold…Rumpelstiltskin…whoever, explain what the ever-living fuck is going on here.

But Gold wasn’t the one who was lying, Regina was, and Emma’s sixth sense is strongly suggesting that something important is going to happen, and that it might be a good idea to see what it is.

Emma follows her gut.

It leads her, of all places, to the hospital.

This, naturally makes her covert shadowing of Regina much harder, because someone is definitely going to notice her, and in this place, she has the less than sneaking suspicion that that someone would likely report back to Regina.  And if she wants to keep seeing her son-and it surprises no one more than Emma how much she really does want that-then she can’t afford that kind of trouble.

And so she’s about to turn, leave and come up with a plan later-preferably after she questions Rumpel-fucking-stiltskin; and how, exactly is this her life again-when something catches her eye.

Regina, instead of heading towards the patient wings of the hospital, as Emma might have expected, goes through a door marked _Exit_.

A keypad, passcode locked door marked _Exit._

A keypad, passcode locked door marked _Exit_ in the square middle of the hospital, that in no way can lead outside the building.

Emma’s gut practically sings.

And so, Emma does turn and walk outside, but instead of heading back to the station, she heads towards the back of the building.

Emma doesn’t know much about architecture, but a guy she dated for about six weeks once had, and she’d picked up a few things.  Add that to her study of the hospital-because something had always seemed a little off about the fact that David’s wife, who lived no more than five blocks away from the hospital, had never thought to look there for him-and Emma thinks she knows where that _Exit_ door leads.

She hits the jackpot when, at the back of the hospital, nearly hidden by outgrowing ivy and bushes, she finds a row of tiny windows.

The first one is empty, and the second as well, and Emma is almost pathetically glad, because these are not hospital rooms, they are cells; cold and concrete and not fit for human consumption.

And then Emma gets to the third window, and she stops cold.

There’s a woman there, in that little window. 

This part isn’t a complete surprise; nobody, especially not someone as self-contained as Gold, beats the crap out of a guy for just a cup, even if it’s Royal freaking Dalton.

No, they do that for grief, or anger or love, and in this case Emma thinks it might have been a bit of all three, and she supposes she can see why.  The girl is beautiful; general hospital disarray aside, she’s all chestnut waves and blue eyes and red lips; the kind of easy, natural beauty that Emma always envied as a gangly teenager.

But then she turns, and Emma gets a good look, and the breath nearly freezes in her lungs.

Because beneath the shapelessness of the hospital gown, lies the undeniable swell of pregnancy.

And then their eyes meet, for only a second, before the girl looks away, and the terror in those blue eyes does steal her breath.

Emma stands, on legs that tremble, and walks, hardly aware that she is doing so, because she was that girl once; pregnant and scared and alone in a cell.  She remembers only too well the icy, helpless terror it had provoked; the same feeling she’d seen in her glimpse of the girl’s eyes.

Emma hadn’t been able to help herself then, and she’d had no one to save her, but this girl will be different.  This girl will have Emma, and she’ll make a deal with Satan himself before she allows that girl to stay in that place for another second.

It makes her decision frighteningly easy.

With that in mind, she walks back into the station, takes the almost forgotten keys that started this whole thing, places them in the lock, and braces herself for whatever is to come.

Turns the key.

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please check out the new art-Baby Rose!!!


	2. The Remembrance of Rumpelstiltskin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. But oh, if wishing made it so.

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_“Fairy Tales always have a happy ending.”_

_“That depends... on whether you are Rumpelstiltskin or the Queen.”_

_―_ Jane Yolen, _Briar Rose_

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Gold is not a man who enjoys cages.

He too well remembers his prison in the Enchanted Forest; a trap he had voluntarily walked into, no matter what the little cinder girl had thought-they had perhaps forgotten his ability to _see the future_? But a necessary evil is still an evil, and that time had rankled on him more than he had expected.

He has learned that being alone with his thoughts is a dangerous thing; something only driven further home by the events of this week.

If this little...escapade with the cup has taught him anything, it is that for sanity to prevail, the remembrance of Rumpelstiltskin is something to be avoided.

The past, after all, is a foreign country. They do things differently there.

It does no good to wish otherwise; this, Rumpelstiltskin, deal-maker of desperate dreams, understands only too well.

He does anyways, of course; especially so in this damned cage with nothing more than a chipped cup and his memories to keep him company.

He is a monster, yes, but in some, vital, painful ways, still only a man.

Thankfully, he is drawn from his painful train of thought by the arrival of the good Sheriff, and so he casts away his unease in favor of a coat of causal indifference; power, even in a situation where he should be powerless.

There is value, always, in keeping up appearances.

However as Emma steps further into the station, Gold catches a better glimpse of her face, and the look on it indicates as clearly as any sign that it’s all wasted on her; her attention far too caught up in whatever’s running through her head.

So instead he waits, silently, because he has been many things to many people over the years, and he senses a confession or a confrontation coming on.  Watches as she grabs her keys, comes towards the door to his cell, turns the key.  Waits, as she gathers her courage, stands in the cell door, hands white knuckled on the bars.

Stays patient, even though he has never been a patient man, because he has learned that sometimes good things come to those who wait.

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

Smirks.

And so, this is to be his reward? The Savoir, so stubborn, rational and hard-headed, believes.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events, isn’t it?

He lets the word-his true name, and he’s man enough to admit that after thirty years, it’s nice to hear it again-hang in the air for a moment; a heavy, weighted thing.  Draws out the moment to let the self-doubt grow; draws it out just long enough for the balance of power to once again shift to him. 

This is the art of the deal, and Rumpelstiltskin knows that timing is everything.

Then, when he finally thinks he’s let it stew long enough, he purrs, smirk firmly in place, “At your service, dearie.”

And then, still seated, he bows; a small gesture but with flourish, a facsimile of the ironic sweep he was once so known for.

Emma response is the slow raise of an eyebrow; she is plainly not impressed.  Gold thinks that if he wasn’t still in this damned cell, he’d probably respect that.

However he says no more; Gold’s been doing this long enough to know that although good deals come from prompting, great deals come without any of his input.

This, he can tell, is going to be one hell of a deal.

 “That cup…” Emma starts slowly, the silence too much for her, voice building with courage, and Gold, who spent too long seeing the future, scowls at the left turn, dreading where this is going, “there was a girl involved.”

He thinks about denying it for a moment; about keeping what little left of Belle he has to himself, but it wasn’t a question, not really, and Emma confirms that as she continues, shrugging her shoulders, “No one beats a man unconscious for a cup.”

At that, it would be pointless to disagree, and Gold so hates pointless things, and so instead, he concedes this round, says softly, eyes steely and dragon sharp, “Yes. There _was_ a girl.”

Emma nods, almost absently, before her eyes, piercing and unrelenting pin into him, and she says, voice carefully steady, “Chestnut hair, big blue eyes, very beautiful.”

“How…,” and now he, Rumpelstiltskin, weaver of words as much as gold, stumbles, lost in a way he hasn’t been for centuries. _How can she possibly know that?_

“How can you possibly know that?” He asks, lifts lost eyes to hers, and whatever she sees there must satisfy what she was looking for, because she starts in on her tale.

“You know, I told Henry once I had a super power; lie detection,” and here she pauses, perhaps for commiseration or effect, but Gold is too lost to add anything, and so she continues.

“It’s no superpower, but I can tell the truth from a lie, and Regina-the Evil Queen,” she fumbles for a moment over the name, but Gold, too tightly wound into what she is saying lets the weakness uncharacteristically lie, “was lying when you too were talking.  So I followed her, and we ended up at the hospital.”

And here, Emma swallows, takes a breath and Gold’s heart clenches with thoughts of what she could have found that would have her reacting this way.  He doesn’t have long to wait-a mixed blessing if he’s ever seen one- as she finally gets to the meat of her little story. “I found a wing of…cells,” she spits out, all fire and steel and disgust, “and in the last one was-the one I’m betting Regina visited-was the girl I described to you. The girl I’m pretty sure is your girl.”

“That’s…not possible,” he whispers, voice broken, into the dead silence left by her assumption, but his mind whirls all the same, because is it? She died; he was _told_ she was dead, but he never saw her body, did he?

But he’s pulled, once again out of the quagmire of his own mind by Emma’s hesitant, “Gold…” And the tone of her voice is _just_ this side of too carefully controlled, and even as dazed and shocked as Gold is at that moment, he’s still aware enough to know that this, what this is, is going to change everything.

“Gold she’s pregnant.”

He’s right of course, and Rumpelstiltskin’s heart stutters, as he is helpless to do anything but remember.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

_Remembers his little Belle, his brave little bird who’d let free of her gilded cage._

_Remembers how she had come back, and how his heart had fluttered at the sight if her; a future he had been too afraid to look at._

_Remembers how she had looked at him, the softness of her eyes and the warmth of her hand on his shoulder._

_Remembers not being unhappy, and how her smile had warmed a part of his heart he had though long dead._

_Remembers how she had cupped his cheek, stared at his lips before something had flickered in her eyes and she had moved instead to his neck, her lips feather soft and so lovely._

_Remembers how he trembled beneath her touch, how he had raised unworthy hands to touch her flesh, and how she had welcomed-welcomed!-his touch._

_Remembers how he had, with a whisp of purple smoke and a thought, vanished their clothes, and how she had trembled as he had explored all her secret places; the valley of her breasts, the hills and vales of her hips._

_Remembers how they had both shuddered when he had sunken up into her, remembers whispering her name, awed beyond belief, and hearing his moaned back at him; the undreamed made reality._

_Remembers the heat and warmth of her and wishing it would never end, and the impossible crest as it had._

_Remembers her cries of completion, no sweeter sound to be found, and the feeling of her breath hot on his neck before she had turned to meet his eyes._

_Remembers how, in that ever lovely moment of afterglow, she had kissed him, lips to lips._

_Remembers I love you, and true loves kiss._

_Unfortunately, he also remembers what came next._

_Remembers raging and screaming, remembers fear, so much fear._

_Remember no one could ever, ever love me, and the dungeon._

_Remembers a chipped cup and an empty heart, and the sight of her as she left him, head held high._

_Remembers that was the last time he ever saw her._

_Remembers, she died._

_Remembers it was his fault._

_Rumpelstiltskin remembers everything, no matter how hard he begs to forget._

_This is his true curse._

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“You’re the father,” Emma breathes, breaking him out of his memories, her voice carefully blank, but her eyes, somehow, are kind, non-judgmental.

He fears what he must look like-how dismal and wrecked he must be-to inspire that kindness, so undeserved.

“Yes,” he grits out from behind clenched teeth, looks away from that damned look of hers, hardly able to process that information; _a father again_.  He puts it away in favor of another impossibility; that of Belle, _his Belle_ , alive. “I was...informed that she had died.”

“I don’t suppose I’d need three guesses to figure out who told you that,” Emma says quietly, some sort of clarity beginning to dawn in her eyes as she puts the pieces together, and they can both hear the name she doesn’t say as clear as day.

“No, I don’t imagine you would,” he replies softly, but not kindly, and he amuses himself, briefly, with the thoughts of what he is going to do Regina once Belle is back with him where she belongs. 

The screams of the Evil Queen will be the thing of legend.

But that is then, when magic has returned and the curse has lifted, and this is now, and Gold, ever the pragmatist, knows he needs a true plan. Yes, he can bully, call in favors and threaten Belle out of that…cell-and oh, she will pay especially for that-but this is Regina’s town, and in this world without magic Gold knows that to truly protect Belle-and their child, although he can hardly let himself consider that if he wants to remain any use to anyone-then he has to do this legally.

The irony has not escaped him.

So he takes a moment, gathers his tattered wits back into himself, and when he looks up he is once again Mr. Gold; resolute, controlled and forever scheming.  His eyes are clear and sharp, and his voice does not waver as he addresses the good Sherriff. “Ms. Swan, I believe I’m going to call in that favor now.”

“Hang your favor Gold.” She says with a roll of her eyes, and then plows onward before he can interrupt, voice determined, “I’m helping you because I’ve been there before, alone and pregnant and locked up, and I’m sure as hell not going to stand by and let anyone else suffer that.”

Her gaze is fierce and strong, her stance one hundred percent that of a warrior, ready to race into battle, and Gold, for a moment, can only look at her in something resonating between amusement and wonder.

His gaze apparently lingers to long, because after a moment of silence she says, voice defensive, “ _What_?”

“I wasn’t sure you had what it took to be the Savior,” he says, mincing few words, but his goal isn’t to hurt, merely to be honest. He waits until she’s met his eye before he says, the smallest tilt of his lips; not quite a smile, but closer than he’s been too one in a very long time, “I’m pleased to find that I was wrong.”

Emma swallows, once, clearly touched, before she gathers herself back together and the emotion is gone and Gold let’s her, understanding the need for veneers.  Once she’s settled, she looks up at him again, and asks, voice somewhere between surprised and curious, “I forgot to ask-what’s her name, your girl?”

“Belle,” he says, voice soft over the precious word, vowing that it will be name he has plenty of use for in the future. “Her name is Belle.”

“Beautiful,” Emma says softly, and nods once, “it fits.” And then she turns, and walks out of the cell.

But this time, she leaves the door open, and Gold knows what that means.

And so he stands, places a hand that still trembles on his cane.  Cradles his precious cup in his other hand, and although he will never be a prince, or perhaps even a truly brave man, Rumpelstiltskin gathers his courage, and makes a promise.

Do the brave thing and braveness will follow.

_No matter what it takes Belle, I will come for you._

_Forever._

Steps out of the cell.

“We’ve got work to do, dearie.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, yep, we’re really doing this. Rumpelstiltskin and the Savior are teaming up, because the enemy of my enemy is my…friend. Ok, so maybe too far too fast, but, well common goal and all that! Thanks to everyone who’s enjoyed this so far, I aim not to disappoint as we go on, although updates are unlikely to continue to be this quick. Next up; plotting and Henry, cause I love that kid! And then Belle I promise! As always enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	3. The Littlest Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Abracadabra. Damn it, still not mine.

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_“Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”_

― A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

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See the thing is, Henry knows that Emma doesn’t believe in the curse.

He knows that Operation Cobra is just to be nice to him, and he’s ok with that.  Frankly, it’s makes him feel kind of nice inside that she’d do that for him just so she can spend time with him.  His mom-his evil mom-wouldn’t do anything like that; she just sent him to therapy. 

But here’s the thing; Emma’s got it wrong.

Henry doesn’t believe in the curse.

Henry _knows_ the curse is real.

Because he has a crush on Paige Hatton.

Because he’s had a crush on Paige Hatton since his first day of school when he was five, and she was ten, and so pretty, and she had kicked the ball with him at recess.

But he’d been five and she’d been ten-and ocean of difference-and that had been that.

But then he’d also had a crush on Paige Hatton when he was seven, and she’d played pirates with him and had wanted to be the pirate captain and not the princess, and she’d still been ten.

Henry had been a bit confused, but he’d been only seven, and he didn’t understand everything, and she was still ten; too old to like him.

But now Henry is ten, and he still has a crush on Paige Hatton, who has tea parties with him and has a white rabbit on her backpack, and she is still ten.

And Henry; Henry is old enough to realize that being the only person who ages, not just at his school, but in the whole town, is wrong.

And then Miss Blanchard gives him a book of fairy tales-very special fairy tales-and it all makes sense.

And so he went and found Emma.

Not really because she was his mom-his real mom at least- but it’s a nice side benefit, but because there is a curse; because Henry _knows_ there is a curse and Emma is the only who can break it.

Henry doesn’t want Paige Hatton to be ten years old forever.

Everyone else as well, but she’s first in his mind sometimes. His evil mom, he knows would say that was silly or stupid.  Henry thinks that, if he ever told Emma that, she’d probably say that it was sweet.

It’s one of the reasons he loves her.

But Henry also knows that Emma hasn’t seen what he has seen; he expected her to not believe-it’s a lot to grasp, especially when said aloud-and so he’s not crushed when she doesn’t.

Henry knows she’ll come around.

But Henry has also got good instincts, and so when Emma leaves him with Mary Margaret to go and get her keys-which is cool, because she’s _Snow White_ and also his grandmother which is like, doubly awesome-and doesn’t come back, Henry knows that something big is going on.

Emma wouldn’t abandon him, he knows that, which leaves the alternative; something big-likely in the magical curse department- has sidetracked her.  Which in this town, could mean a lot of things, either good or bad.

So Henry finishes his ice cream, makes his excuses to Mary Margaret, and goes to find Emma, because yeah, breaking the curse is up to her, but Henry will do whatever he can to help, no matter how dangerous.

This, he thinks, is maybe what love is all about. 

And so, after he says good-bye to Mary Margaret, he heads towards the police station first, because that’s where Emma probably was last, and even if she isn’t there now, then at least there could be a clue there about where’s she went.

And if he can’t find anything, then he can ask Mr. Gold what happened.

All the grown-ups, Henry knows, even his evil mom are scared of Mr. Gold. They think he’s cruel and unfair, and that his deals ruin lives.  They’d never ask him anything.

Henry’s always just thought he looks lonely.

However, by this time he’s reached the station, and so although he isn’t afraid of Mr. Gold, he finds himself pausing at the door for a second, because _anything_ could have happened to Emma.  But Henry is the boy who outwitted the Evil Queen, went to Boston on his own and convinced Emma to come back to Storybrooke with him, and so he knows how to be brave.  And so with a deep breath for courage, he opens the door and walks in.

This is a town with a magical, happiness stealing curse; Henry is prepared for quite a lot when he steps through the station door.

The sight of Emma and Mr. Gold-out of his cell-heads bent over Emma’s desk, clearly working together on something, wasn’t one of those things.

It, rather understandably-given how Henry knows Emma feels about Mr. Gold-throws him for a second, and Henry stands still in the doorway, trying to figure out what’s going on.  He apparently stands there silent for a moment too long, because Emma notices his presence and looks up, and when she’s sees it’s him, and expression of apology blooms on her face.

“Henry-Ice cream. Crap I forgot!” She says, voice sincere as she starts to make her way around the desk towards him.

“It’s ok,” Henry answers simply, because it is, all thoughts of anything but this-whatever this is-already pushed aside as he takes a few more steps into Emma’s office.

Emma however clearly can’t let the matter lie as easily as she makes her way over to him, crouches down to his level and lays a hand on his shoulder before she continues, voice earnest, “I am sorry Henry, it’s just been a…weird day.”

And Henry is just about to offer another affirmation that he really doesn’t mind, but something twigs on just the fringe of his thoughts, and so Henry _looks_ , really looks at Emma, and he gets it.

“You believe! In the curse!” He announces loudly, his excitement clear in his voice-Emma _believes!_ And then the rest of his thoughts catch up with him and he asks the important question, “What happened?!”

“Clever boy,” Mr. Gold says, voice smooth, before Emma can answer, a look on his face that Henry doesn’t quite understand; somewhere between fondness and sadness.

However before Henry can give that look more thought, Emma turns, raises her eyebrow and says, entirely deadpan, to the man everyone in town seems to think is a monster, “Not helping, Gold.”

Yeah, Emma is kind of his hero.

However at that, something passes over Emma’s face and she turns back to Henry for a moment, her hands still on his shoulders comfortingly, as she says quietly, “Henry I need to talk to Mr. Gold alone for a second.  Can you wait here while I do that?”

“Sure,” he says, and it’s not even really a lie. Of course he _could_ wait here while and Emma and Mr. Gold talk.  Is he going to?

No way.

However it’s good enough to fool Emma’s lie detector, or perhaps she’s just really preoccupied with whatever is going on, but whatever the reason Emma nods and after a look at Mr. Gold, they both walk out of the office and into the hallway.

Henry waits a few seconds, just enough so they’ll start talking but not enough so he’ll miss anything, and then he moves to the corner of the door, hidden enough so only his head is visible but far enough out that he can hear what they are saying at the end of the hallway.

Sure enough it works as he hears Emma say, “I’m not sure I want him in on this, Gold,” her voice serious and unyielding, “This is serious, and I don’t want him in danger.”

“Far be it for me to tell you how to parent, but he’s a bright lad, your boy, and to be fair, he’s the one who believed all along.” He then hears Mr. Gold answer, voice somewhere between his chastising voice Henry has heard him use on lots of people and an honest drawl.  

And then Mr. Gold looks up and meets Henry’s eye where he’s hiding to listen in and quirks his lips deliberately, the move of a co-conspirator, before he turns back to Emma blank-faced, and says, “Besides, something tells me no matter what you do, the lad is going to try and help anyways.”

“You’re a pain in the ass when you’re right, you know that?” He hears Emma say after a weighted minute, and Henry has to hold in the urge to cheer, because she’s going to let him help! However he hears the telltale signs of them retuning, and so he scurries back to his previous position in the room, so quick he almost misses Mr. Gold’s faint, and ironic drawl of, “I live to serve, dearie.”

Emma snorts, the sound of suppressed laughter, ironic or not as she comes back into the office, and Henry puts his most innocent face on that he has; his no-I-didn’t-go-to-Boston-and-find-my-real-mother-so-she-could-break-your-evil-curse face. 

It must work, or perhaps Emma is just humoring him, because after a moment of looking between Mr. Gold and Henry, she finally says, her voice long-suffering and slightly incredulous, “Henry, meet Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin, my kid.”

And then she turns back to Mr. Gold and says, voice dry and serious, “So no funny business.”

Mr. Gold nods once in affirmation, but Henry’s attention is entirely caught up in the magnitude of what he’s just learned as he blurts out excitedly, “You’re Rumpelstiltskin-I should have known that ‘cause of the deals!” And then he pauses, though only for a second to catch his breath, “Cool! So you could do magic and stuff!”

“Yes,” Mr. Gold- _Rumpelstiltskin!_ -says, clearly a bit nonplussed, clearly waiting for something else.  When Henry just continues to beam at him, something almost vulnerable crosses his face, but it disappears the moment Emma moves to start speaking again, so fast that Henry might have thought he’s imagined it, if he hadn’t been looking so closely.

However Henry pushes that thought away in favor of listening to Emma, as she explains exactly what’s happened.  “I followed…your mom to the hospital after I overheard her and Gold having a very revealing discussion.” She starts, and then she puts her hand back on Henry’s shoulder, a clear gesture of comfort and support before she continues, “And I found a woman she’s keeping in the hospital.  A woman that Gold…used to know named Belle.”

“Like from Beauty and the Beast!” Henry says excitedly, because that story was missing pages in his book and he’d never gotten to read all of it, but Rumpelstiltskin being the beast is a pretty cool twist.  Way better than Disney. 

And then he looks at Mr. Gold, really looks and _sees,_ and says, voice still excited but kind, “She’s your happily ever after.”

“Yes,” Mr. Gold says, voice rough, and Henry wonders why no one else ever sees how lonely Mr. Gold really is, “Yes she is.”

“Then we’ll save her,” Henry says confidently, because it’s just that simple.  She’s his happily ever after, and so Emma will get her back for him, because that’s what Emma does.

Mr. Gold’s eyes go suspicious damp, and Emma smiles at him as an answer, and ruffles his hair with her hand; a gesture that Henry has come to learn means she's proud of him for some reason, and Henry feels something warm inside him at the gesture, before she sobers a bit and says to both of them, “The problem is how to do it in a way that Regina can’t overturn.  This is literally her town; this has to be ironclad and above book.”

There’s a moment of silence then, as they all think about what Emma’s said, and then something dawns on Henry; an idea that he thinks just might be the answer and so he asks, “You said she was in the hospital right?”

“Yeah; in a secret wing,” Emma affirms, and then she waits, clearly willing to see where Henry is going with this. 

At her look of support, Henry gets the courage to continue, and so he says, putting the whole idea out, “Well, doesn’t she have to be in there for a reason? I mean, if she isn’t really sick then my mom had to have lied to put her in there, right? So then her hospital records would be, what’s it-forged?”

“Henry, you’re brilliant!” Emma says, with a smile that just beams with pride and she swoops down and places a kiss on his forehead before she zips out of the room to do something.

Henry watches her go with a certain sense of amusement, before he turns to Mr. Gold who is still standing very still in the office and asks, only slightly hesitantly, because although Emma might sugar-coat the truth to spare his feelings, he knows Mr. Gold won’t, “So it was a good idea?”

“It was an excellent idea,” Mr. Gold says, voice almost fond, and then Mr. Gold’s lips quirk, in the tiniest of smiles, as he bows, “Your highness.”

“Awesome!” Henry replies after a moment, beaming, because although he’s thought about it once or twice, it’s different to hear it from someone else; someone who _knows_.  Snow White and Prince Charming ran a kingdom, which makes Emma and himself both royalty.  Which, in his opinion, is massively cool. 

Prince Henry has a nice ring to it.

However, Emma choses that moment to whip back into the office, and she rolls her eyes kindly at both Mr. Gold-who is still slightly bowed-and Henry before she says, voice, voice indulging but also serious, “What are you two doing-we’ve got forms to find and a girl to go get.  Theatrics later!”

At that Mr. Gold sobers, his whole body, from his stance to his eyes becomes determined and, after one last slightly kind look at Henry, he follows Emma out the door, walking fairly briskly for a man with a cane.

Henry is right behind him, a smile firmly fixed on his face.

Jailbreak time.

_Cool._

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /N: So, Henry. I really love Henry; I think he's kind of the unsung hero of the show, and I hope I managed to capture his Henryness in this chapter. Next up, Belle! And baby stuff, because this chapter was very babyless; mostly because I feel Emma would want to try and protect Henry from the idea of his mom locking up an innocent pregnant woman. And yes, Henry's Paige is Jefferson's daughter. Because I can! As always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	4. The Belle of the Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Look, now you’re just rubbing it in.

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_You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face._

-Eleanor Roosevelt

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The world of Isobel French is a small thing indeed.

It consists of four cold stone walls, a hard slab of a bed, and a tiny, comfortless window.

Of nurses, eyes professional and unsympathetic, and three plain, simple, nutritious but unappetising meals a day.

And then there is the _woman_.

She, most of all, is the least comforting.  She’s all dark hair and dark, cold eyes; evil, in a slick power suit.  She comes to visit from time to time; mostly just to lift the flap and stare at Isobel, like one would stare at animals in the zoo.

But then there are the times when she comes to talk.

It’s never friendly-usually in a mean spirit-and not what anyone would ever consider a conversation; the _woman_ talks and Isobel listens, but is never invited to participate; not, that she particularly wants to.  Rather, it is like the _woman_ is unloading-her day, secrets-things that make no sense and have no context to Isobel, but that she can’t tell other people.

Isobel wonders, sometimes, how alone this woman must be, to seek the company of her prisoners.

But still, Isobel drinks up every word, in the hopes that it will somehow help her fill in the missing spaces of her memory.

Because Isobel is imprisoned for a crime she can’t remember committing.

She remembers her name; Isobel French, daughter of Maurice French, the florist.  Remembers her mother’s death when she was young, and remembers loving to read.

But she has no memory of how she came to be in this cell; no memory of what she did that was so horrible to earn this punishment.

If the _woman_ knows, she offers no insight, and this, for a long time, is the whole of Isobel’s existence.

Sometimes, it feels as if time is not passing at all, for nothing ever changes in her little cage.

But then.

But then, a while ago-a few months perhaps- Isobel felt something shift.

Like a new breathe of air breathed into the world-like time itself awakening from a long sleep.

And then she felt a flutter in her womb.

The unmistakable signs of life, in this place where there is none.

And it is then, amongst the flickers of joy, that Isobel first feels terror.

Because she is pregnant and locked up, and they will take her child from her.

Because she has no memory of the father, and no one to fight for her.

The terror nearly makes her go mad.

But only nearly, because Isobel is not alone anymore; because Isobel is someone’s mother now, and this little person-this little mystery miracle-needs someone strong. 

And because Isobel still listens to the _woman_.

The _woman_ takes her pregnancy in with a complete lack of surprise-at a level such that Isobel wonders if she had known already.  Instead, her mood seems to shift towards the idea; sometimes she is entirely indifferent, and sometimes she is cruel about it.

She is never kind.

But once, when she is cruel, whispering about unfit mothers and faceless parents for her child, the _woman_ says something that makes Isobel’s breath catch.

“He’ll never come for you,” she says harshly, hurtfully, _victoriously_ , “he’ll never come for either of you,” and although it’s designed to hurt, it gives Isobel hope.

It means there is a him out there somewhere.

It means that somewhere, there is someone who cares for her; because the _woman_ would not be so vindictively pleased if this person did not care her.

It means that, perhaps, there is someone out there to help protect her child.

It’s a thought that does wonders to keep her sane.

And so, between the _woman’s_ visits time passes; no more evident than in her body’s changes.  Her stomach swells, ripe with the life that it once hid, and the baby-her child-grows, pushes playfully at the constraints of its own little cage, and Isobel drinks in every movement.

The fear is still there, ever looming, but for a moment, Isobel is almost content.

And then, there is a face at the window.

It’s a woman’s face; pretty, blonde hair and steely eyes that go round with shock when she sees Isobel, and for a second, Isobel let’s herself hope.

But then the terror sets in, because if the _woman_ found out, she could do something to her baby, and Isobel can’t take that risk.

So she rips her eyes away from the window, sits back onto her bed, and tries her best to forget the face.

But then, sometime the next day, when Isobel has almost finally managed to talk herself out of hope, there is a commotion outside the door.

“This is outrageous! This woman needs care!” A voice announces loudly, and this is the _woman_ ; Isobel recognizes her voice quite clearly, but the tone of it-threatened and indignant-is new.

“Actually, Madam Mayor, I think you’ll find that her records happen to be quite false.” This is a new voice; another woman, but Isobel has never heard her voice before.  However she seems to be taking on the _woman_ as she continues, voice smooth but clearly edged with accusation and mockery, “I’m sure you have an explanation for that?”

“No, but when I find the culprit I can assure you they will be held accountable for their actions.” The _woman_ says, voice colored with something dark, and Isobel shivers instinctively.

She knows what that tone means.

However the other woman is apparently unaffected by the malice in her tone, as she drawls, bitingly and patronizingly, “I’m sure.”

“I resent that accusation,” the woman says, all false indignation, before he voice becomes sly and designed to hurt, “I was only trying to help this poor woman after she was abandoned.”

“Yes I can see the quality of your ‘care,’” The other woman says, not yielding an inch, and Isobel wishes she had her courage.

“Enough,” a new voice says, male, accented and entirely level, and there is something about it that commands Isobel’s full attention.  The voice continues after a second, carefully smooth, but not kind, “You’re going to let her go now, dearie.”

And then, as something flutters in Isobel’s stomach, he drawls only one more word, “Please.”

There is silence for a minute that feels like an eternity, so weighted that it feels like she’s trying to breathe underwater, and then there is a sound of jingling metal and the door does something it’s never done before.

It opens.

Isobel can hardly breathe as she looks out the door, glimpses for the first time in so long something beyond her little cage.  But Isobel is still afraid, because the unknown is a terrifying thing for someone with no friends to help her, and so she draws her knees up as well as she can, protecting her child from whatever lies out there, and peeks, timidly, over her knees.

The sight that greets her is a surprise; she sees the woman from the window, her arm thrust out to restrain the _woman_ from coming any closer; an ally, when before she had none.

And then there is the man.

For her giant slayer, this man who made the _woman_ back down, he’s not what Isobel would have expected.  He’s of average height, with longish hair, tingled with accents of grey that fall around a distinguished face.  He’s wearing not armour, but a suit, expensive and well-tailored, and one of his hands rests on a cane inlaid with gold.

However it’s the eyes that capture Isobel, because his eyes are looking at her like she’s the most miraculous thing in this world.

Isobel’s heart flutters at that look.

“Belle,” he says simply, after a moment, breaking the strange silence that had fallen, her name but not her name, and he holds out the hand that is not gripping his cane towards her, “you can come out now, if you’d like.”

He offers no platitudes; no meaningless _you’re safe now’s_ , and somehow that is more comforting than anything else that could have been said.

And then he waits, patiently, like he would be willing to wait there for all eternity there for her, and although Isobel doesn’t trust him-no matter what she feels, she doesn’t really trust anyone-there is something about him that calls to her.

And so Isobel looks into kind eyes, and takes a leap of faith.

Places her hand in his.

Exits the cell.

And her world, _expands_.

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She’s sitting in the garden when they talk next.

The time between then and now is in some parts a blur, but Isobel remembers enough.  She remembers his arm around her, shielding her from the _woman_ as he had led her out of her prison and into the world again.  Remembers the other woman, the blonde sending the _woman_ away, and remembers a car ride with just the three of them in a beat up little yellow car.

She also remembers the woman-Emma, as she introduced herself as-letting her sit in this little garden and making sure she was alright before she’d beckoned the man-who she’d called Gold-into the building to talk. 

Isobel especially remembers how the man-Gold, a name that Isobel thinks fits him, but strangely also thinks does not-had looked at her; had waited for her _permission_ before he had moved to follow Emma.

Isobel gives special consideration to that look.

However it’s no hardship to sit in this pretty little garden, and so Isobel drinks up the fresh air and the scent of flowers as she waits for them-her rescuers- to come back.  She doesn’t have to wait long however, as after a few minutes he comes back alone, and after another non-verbal inquiry, he seats himself beside Isobel on the bench.

There are a few minutes of silence then-not uncomfortable, as Isobel might have imagined it to be-before Isobel finally gathers up her courage and speaks.

“I haven’t seen the sun for a long time,” she says, her face half tilted towards him and half tilted towards the sky, basking in the warmth.

“Ah,” he says, his hands white knuckling on his cane before he visually forces himself to relax, but he does nothing more, perhaps realizing there is nothing he could say that would do any real good.

Isobel appreciates that.

They lapse into another round of silence; this one mostly characterised by his covert looks at the hand she has rubbing her stomach, and the look he gives her is so complex-too many feelings tangled up to even name-that Isobel’s heart jumps a beat.

She wants desperately to ask, but she is not brave enough.

However another few looks, he breaks the silence this time by clearing his throat to get her attention and then, once she is looking at him again, he asks, slightly hesitantly, “I was wondering if you had any plans, for the immediate future?”

“No I…No,” Isobel answers after a second of thought.  She supposes she has her father, but what memories she does have suggest that would be a bad idea.  Her father loved her, this she knows, but he never came to see her once during all that time, and he is not a man that could protect her and her child from the woman-Regina, she heard Emma call her.

He nods, once, as if he was expecting that answer, and then he continues, his eyes fixed pointedly on his cane. “I’d like to offer my assistance.  I have a rather large home-plenty of room for you and your child.” And then he does look up at her as he finishes, “And I could offer some…protection against Regina.”

It’s an extremely kind offer, but Isobel has been in a cage for too long to trust anything that seems too good to be true, and so although she doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, she has to ask, “And what would you be getting out of that agreement?”

Rather than be offended, he seems to approve of her question, if the tiny lift of the corners of his mouth are any indication, before he answers, “The pleasure of your company,” and then quieter, softer, “It can be a rather lonely home with only one person in it.”

“That can’t be the only reason,” Isobel pushes, because she’s sure there’s more to this, even though she has no idea where this certainty comes from.

He does smile then, although it is a rueful one, before he returns his gaze to the golden head of his cane and says, quietly, “You remind me of a woman I knew, once upon a time. I lost her because I was a coward.” The he meets her eyes again, and the sadness there makes her heart hurt, “Perhaps I am trying to make amends.”

“Did I know you?” Isobel finds herself asking, because surely it isn’t normal to feels this…this sense of déjà vu with a stranger.  And then, as she recalls, “You called me Belle-no one calls me that.”

“No,” he says finally, not addressing the name issue, but there’s something so pained about the word that Isobel wonders if it is a lie, “but if you accept my offer, perhaps you will come too.” And then, soft-eyed and strangely young, an allowance that Isobel knows that he would rather keep to himself, “I’d enjoy it if you did.”

And so Isobel takes a moment, and thinks.

It is not, she knows, a decision between good and evil.  And she supposes that, in considering his offer, it is not even the choice of the lesser of two evil’s, because Isobel has the less than sneaking suspicion that, if provoked, this man could be far more dangerous than Regina could ever dream to be.

Additionally, he’s made no claim on her or her child; it is unlikely he is the mysterious _someone_ that Regina mentioned, who Isobel infers is the father.  But he came for her, went up against her jailer for her, and she thinks that he really might be able to protect her, and Isobel desperately needs someone like that right now.

That in mind, Isobel looks up, meets his eyes, and decides her own fate.

Do the brave thing, she tells herself, and maybe braveness will follow.

“I will go with you.”

It isn’t forever, after all.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Belle!! I really like Belle, although I find her voice a bit difficult, because Isobel is Belle but she also isn’t, which makes it a bit trickier. However I like the way she’s turning out so far, and I hope you do as well. Additionally, although unrelatedly, I wrote the last paragraph of this story today-haven’t written any of the chapters in between yet but I’ve got the ending. *Facepalm* Something is very wrong with me! Oh well, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	5. What Fresh Hell, This Waiting Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: We’ve been over this right? Good. Still not mine.

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 _“If I have to spend time in purgatory before going to one place or the other, I guess I'll be all right as long as there's a lending library”_ -Stephen King

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There is a place called purgatory, where souls, tortured and dark, wait for punishment.

Rumpelstiltskin knows this, because he is in it.

And what’s worse is that he has no one but himself to blame.

They saved the girl, took her from Regina’s clutches, but now he is faced with the reality that he didn’t let himself consider before.

Because what he wants to do is take her in his arms, hold her close and feel the baby- _their_ baby-kick.

But this is not Belle, daughter of Sir Maurice of the Marchlands and lover of Rumpelstiltskin.

This is Isobel French, daughter of Moe French, the florist.

Isobel French who is fragile and scared, and no one’s lover.

Isobel French, who can’t remember who the father of her baby is.

Gold’s hand grips the handle of his cane so tightly he fears it will crack.

Of all of the scenarios that he’d considered in the day he’d had to accept that Belle- _his Belle_ \- was alive and _pregnant_ , this by far was the worst one.  Certainly worse than the best case; Belle forgiving him and raising their child together, and even worse than Belle remembering everything he’d done and hating him, not letting him see his child.

Because this, this is _torture_.

This is watching the woman he loves-the mother of his _child_ -stare at him as if he was a stranger.  This is being close enough to Belle to smell the natural rose scent of her skin, but not being able to touch.

The part of him that has always been a coward wants to lock himself in his room and just avoid her; avoid the pain. But Gold, Gold made promise; forever, no matter what, and so he keeps that thought close to him as he leads Belle into his home.

They haven’t spoken much since their discussion in the garden-barely a few words-and Gold imagines that she’s tired from all of the excitement of the day.  It’s a safer thought than the idea that, after so much time in a cage, she might be unused to speaking to people again.

That thought makes him want to skin Regina while she still lives.

But that would get him arrested, and leave Belle unprotected, and so he pushes it away in favor for silently showing her to her room. It’s a real room-he’s doing things _right_ this time-an elegant four poster bed, pale blue accents, and a comfortable on suite bathroom.  He didn’t have much time to plan for her arrival-just a day-but Gold’s had this room in his house for years, stocked with clothes that-as of yesterday, when he’d bought maternity clothing-are all her size.

He has one for Bae as well, just down the hall; full of toys for the child he’s been and clothes for a man Gold imagines-hopes-he is now.

He never thought he’d ever get to use either room.

He’s almost impossibly glad to be wrong.

She offers him a quizzical look once she sees the room, but says nothing, and Gold forces a facsimile of a smile onto his face as he lies, casually, “Guest room. I hope it meets your needs.”

“It’s beautiful,” Belle whispers after a moment, her voice overcome, and the naked gratitude in her eyes makes Gold want to drop to his knees and beg for her forgiveness.

But Isobel is not Belle, and the gesture would be lost on her at best and frighten her at worst, and so instead he grips his cane to keep himself from touching her and he wishes her, “Good dreams,” softly, the only thing he can offer, and she rewards him with a hesitant, soft smile in return, before slowly closing the door behind her.

Gold waits a moment, until he can hear the tell-tale signs of her getting ready for bed before he makes his way slowly to his own room, to begin his own nighttime preparations.  They don’t take long; he brushes his teeth, washes his face and trades his suit for a pair of silk pajamas, then goes to his bed, and begins the truly difficult part of going to sleep for him.

Lies down on his own bed, and tries to calm the maelstrom that is his mind-the swarming thoughts that threaten to consume him; bullies and compartmentalizes, until only one thought remains.

She’s here, she’s safe, and she’s going to stay that way.

With that in mind, Gold closes his eyes, and let’s himself drift off into a restless sleep.

It’s the screaming that wakes him.

It’s a hideous, terrified noise, and Gold jackknifes out of bed at the sound, his heart racing, and it’s the worse sound in the world because he knows its _Belle_ who’s making it. It takes him, in reality, only a few seconds to grab his cane and make it to her bedroom-and impressive feat for a man with a limp-but listening to her heart-wrenching screams, it feels like an eternity.

He rushes though the door-unsurprisingly unlocked, given her history-and makes a beeline for her bed, where she thrashes wildly, still caught in the grip of her nightmare.  She fights him when he grabs her shoulders gently, eyes hazy and unseeing, and he finds himself murmuring, hardly aware of what he’s saying, in an effort to get her to wake, “Isobel-Isobel, sweet, calm down, you’re safe. _Belle_ -it’s ok, I’m here, it’s only a nightmare.”

“She took my baby!” She sobs after a moment, eyes finally clear of sleep but still hysterical, “She took my baby!”

At that, Gold can almost _feel_ his heart clench, but for a lack of magic to fix all her hurts, he does the only thing he can; gathers her into his chest and just lets her cry it out, the only comfort he can offer, and _plots_.

Oh yes, Regina will pay dearly; a scream, perhaps, for every tear Belle sheds.

That seems like a fair deal to him.

When it seems that Belle has exhausted her tears, her heaving sobs dying off to damp sniffs, Gold reluctantly lets her sit up out of his arms, and offers her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. He averts his eyes while she dries her own, trying to afford her an opportunity to regain any dignity, and when he thinks it’s been long enough he returns his gaze to her, and tries to offer an aura of non-judgemental support, unsure if he has succeeded-monsters are rarely good at comfort, after all. 

Perhaps it works, for perhaps she is just too desperate to keep her feelings bottled up, but whatever the reason, after a few moments on silence she says, her eyes trained on the comforter, “I don’t remember how I got pregnant. I don’t know who the father is.” And then she turns pained, pleading teary eyes to his own, “She said that made me unfit to be a mother.”

“She is, as she always is, entirely wrong,” he says, fighting back the urge to run his hands through her hair for comfort, knowing that he cannot take advantage of her vulnerably to take liberties she wouldn’t normally allow.  Instead he settles for taking her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before he says, voice as serious as it’s ever been, “I won’t let anyone take your baby from you, Isobel. I give you my word.”

“Promise?” She asks, eyes pinning him to the spot; terribly vulnerable and yet that underlying backbone of strength that she once had is still just visible, and it makes her unbelievably beautiful.

“Promise,” he says, the word as binding as any deal he’s ever made-as if by, saying it, it makes it fact.

She holds his gaze for a long, intense, moment; so long that Gold worries that he’s given away too much and frightened her, but then her gaze finally drops, and he breathes a tiny sigh of relief.  “Try to sleep, dear,” He says into the ensuing silence, trying to lighten the mood, “The baby needs its rest, after all.”

“Stay?” She asks, voice hesitant and so soft he barely hears it, and even though he knows it isn’t personal-knows that she’s asking him not because she wants his presence specially, but because she needs someone and he’s the only person there, his heart still clenches helplessly in response.

“As long as you need,” he says, meaning every word.

_Forever._

With one more heartbreakingly grateful look, she finally closes her eyes, drifts off to sleep, and Gold stays at her bedside, an old dragon, keeping the monsters at bay.

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He stays awake for the rest of the night, watching over her, ready to wake her again if she drifts into another nightmare.  But her sleep is mostly undisturbed after that, and so as the first splinters of light sneak into the room, Gold dresses, and finally makes his way downstairs to start another day.

An ordinary man, he knows, would be tired after a night with so little sleep, but Gold’s never needed much to begin with. He thinks it’s perhaps a residual of being the Dark One that even the Dark Curse couldn’t erase; he needed almost no sleep when he’d had his power-he’d been able to go weeks without a wink and still be entirely aware.  In the Enchanted Forrest this had been a useful skill; so many deals to make and so little time, after all, but here, in this land without magic, he has learned that, for a man with regrets such as his, it is as much a curse as it is a blessing.

The night is nearly unbearable, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

However he pushes those thoughts in favor of something a bit more productive; breakfast.  He doesn’t know particularly what she likes anymore; Belle was fond of eggs, sunny-side up and toast with raspberry jam, but Isobel is not Belle-and isn’t _that_ just the problem?  However he thinks it’s probably as good a place as any to start, and so he gets out the eggs, bread and jam, and sets to the-fairly simple-task of making breakfast.

Luck is apparently on his side this morning, as just as he’s plating the eggs Belle comes down the stairs, wearing one of the new dresses he bought for her.  Naturally, it’s the blue one-because fate is a cruel, cruel bitch that hates him-but the hesitant smile that Belle offers him when she sees him goes a long way to brightening his mood.

He offers her a small smile in return, gesturing with one hand for her to take a seat at the small kitchen table.  She does, a particular look on her face-guilty, perhaps, if he’d have to hazard a guess-but before he can inquire about the cause she speaks, answering his unsaid question, “I’m sorry for waking you last night.”

And ah, so that’s it.  But as he’ll not have her feeling guilty over that he says, after he is sure he has her attention, “You needed someone-I was just glad to be able to help. You never have to apologize to me for what you feel.” And he is thinking of the horrible mistake he’d made in the Dark Castle, and promising once more to get it right this time as he finishes, “Alright?”

“Alright,” she says, shyly, sweetly and a bit bewilderedly, and Gold once again has to remind himself to go slow-not to rush forward and scare her, and so instead of begging for her forgiveness as he’d like to do he changes channels, picking up her plate and taking it to her, putting it down gently in front of her. 

“Now, eat up, dear,” he says, voice cheery in an effort to lighten the mood, “Most important meal of the day and such, and you’re eating for two.”

Thankfully Belle begins to eat without further question, and after a few bites she looks up and offers him a soft look of grateful surprise as she says, quietly, in thanks, “It’s perfect.”

Yes, he thinks, yes _you_ are, but all he says is the simple, “I’m glad you like it.”

They eat breakfast in a comfortable silence, as he drinks his tea and steals tiny, covert looks at Belle over his morning paper.  She eats the whole thing, which he approves of-he doesn’t want to think of how she ate in that damned cell and the baby needs nutrients-and once she is finished, Gold takes her plate to the sink for her.

From the sink, he watches her fidget restless for a second, clearly unsure of what to do next, and so once the plate is clean Gold turns his attention back to her, and comes to a decision, saying, “I have something to show you-something I think you’ll like.”

Belle offers him a quizzical look, but follows after him without any protest, as they make their way to what is perhaps the most special room in this entire house.  Once they arrive at the door, Gold smiles reassuringly at Belle, and then, with a tiny smirk to himself-because he’s pretty sure he knows what will comes next-he opens the library door.

This room, more even so than her room, is his true monument to Belle.  Almost of his best memories of her in the Dark Castle had involved a book of some kind; from watching the light of the fire flicker over her face as she had read while he spun, to staring guiltily at her lower lip, which she always worried between her teeth when she was reading a good book.

He had many, many fantasies about that lip.

He’s spent thirty years filling this room with books; titles that he’d thought she’d like, authors that he’d thought she’d never get to read, and, if he does say so himself, the final product is somewhat impressive.  Oak shelves that go from floor to ceiling line all of the walls, and are full of every kind of book imaginable.  A fireplace, warm and homey, rests into one of the walls, and beside it sit two chairs, leather and tremendously comfortable.  It’s a labour of love that took hard work, and not an inconsequential amount of money.

He would have done it a million times over, just for the stunned look of joy that crosses her face when she sees it.

“I… _books_ ,” she trails off, shock stealing her words as her eyes flit here and there as she tries to take in everything at once.

“It’s yours,” he says simply, basking in the simple joy of her excitement, and she turns huge, round, stunned eyes to him and says, fumbling for words in her shock, “You can’t just…”

He smirks a little at that, but kindly-because he’s missed her trying to tell him what to do-before he replies lightly, “Of course I can, dear. It’s mine to give, after all, and you’ll make better use of it than I ever would.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she says, almost awestruck, and Gold trembles with the effort to keep in the things that want to escape him.

I love you, he wants- _yearns_ -to say. I love you and I was a foolish coward and I’m sorry.  Instead he offers only an entirely inconsequential and unsatisfying, “You’re welcome,” but her returning smile is brilliant all the same.

Once he’s sure she’s alright on her own-which only takes a few seconds, as she’s practically brimming with excitement at the prospect of exploring the room-Gold makes to leave, but he is stopped by Belle’s exclamation of, “Wait!”

At that he turns back, and catches her slightly embarrassed look, before it disappears and she gathers her nerve and says, voice quieter, “It just occurred to me; I don’t know what to call you. What’s your first name?”

Rumpelstiltskin, he almost says, catching himself just before his mouth can form he first damning syllable. I’m Rumpelstiltskin and you’re Belle and we’re having a baby together. 

“Alastair,” he says instead, referring to the name the dark curse picked; strong, Scottish, and meaningless to him. He attempts to convey this to her as he continues, kindly, “but I don’t care for it. I’d prefer if you simply called me,” _yours_ , “Gold.”

“Gold,” she says softly, a particular look on her face, her hands already absently caressing the spine of a book, and Gold has to fight down the visceral envy he feels-envy over a book, although this, at least, is hardly a new feeling-in order to listen to her soft, “I can do that.”

He desperately hopes so.

She brings a book down to dinner, sneaks paragraphs under the table with a rueful, adorable smile, and Gold has fight down a beaming smile-something he has _never_ had to do before-because this, he knows, is a _good_ start.

Maybe, just maybe, they can do this.

And, as the days crawl by into weeks, Gold continues to believe that, because, on the whole, things seem to build from that good start.  Belle comes down and eats breakfast with him, a nice, comfortable affair, before spending hours reading happily in the library while Gold is at the shop.  They then reconvene for dinner, and sometimes, even spend a few lovely, mostly silent hours reading by the fire together.  She even makes him breakfast once-not, he must admit, very well, as even in the Dark Castle Belle was frankly an abominable cook-but she serves it to him with such a look of sweet anticipation that it could have been poison and Gold still would have eaten it with a smile and offered his compliments.

That is not to say that everything is so serene; there are still moments of awkward adjustment-the natural growing pains of two people learning how to live together, learning how to share space and time, though even this is eased by his existing knowledge of living with her in the Dark Castle. 

Less easily solved are things like the fact that she still doesn’t really trust him, doesn’t like to ask him for anything, and doesn’t feel comfortable conversing with anyone other than Emma or himself.  She enjoys being outside, but crowds make her uneasy, and she especially doesn’t like anyone touching her stomach-that had been one hell of a scene. And she still has nightmares, and he still holds her while she cries, and his heart breaks for her, a little more with every tear. And of course, she still has no idea who the father of her child is.

The last one, particularly, is a very special hell.

But despite that, by the time they’ve reached a month into their little agreement, Gold can say that, for the most part, it’s actually going pretty well.

Which is why he hates to bring this up, because he knows how she is going to feel about it, but he can’t, in good conscience, delay it any longer.

They need to go to the hospital for a pre-natal check-up.

Just the idea of taking Belle back to that thrice-damned place makes him want to break things with his bare hands, but this is his baby, even if no one but Emma and he know that, and it’s his duty as the father to make sure the baby-and Belle of course-are healthy.

That in mind, Gold gets a plate of the cookies that he’s noticed that Belle especially enjoys-a raspberries and crème creation- and heads towards the library, where more times than naught, Belle can be found.

Sure enough, Belle is in the library, curled up as well as she can, given her massive stomach, in one of the chairs, her nose buried in a book.  At the sight Gold’s eyes soften fondly, before he sets down the plate of cookies with an unsubtle noise, designed to get her attention.  The cookies are a bribe, most certainly, but Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t have the greatest history of playing fair, and he’s a bit desperate. 

At the sound, Belle looks up, and offers him a shy smile-one that he can’t help but return.  However then his face sobers, and after a few seconds of stalling he finally says, as apologetically as he can manage, forcing it out quickly, “Dear, I hate to bring this up, but I think you’ve been putting off a visit to the hospital for as long as you can. The baby needs a check-up.”

“I know,” Belle says after a moment, her whole body tense, and her hands start to crease the cover of her book, so tight her grip becomes on it.  After a long, tense moment where Belle looks at her hands, clearly contemplating something, she finally looks up and asks, voice hesitant and timid, “Will you come with me?”

Always, he wants to say. _Anywhere_.

“Yes of course,” he settles for instead, the words so inadequate, and frankly Belle’s look of desperate gratitude doesn’t make it any easier, because she shouldn’t have to be so terrified to ask for something like this-something that should just be a given, if not for his own stupidity and Regina’s cruel machinations.

But Belle needs him, and so Gold bites down his bitter frustration, and does what little he can to help.  It is an easy thing to book an appointment for later that day; Gold’s name is certainly not without weight, even in Regina’s little hellhole of a hospital, and frankly, after a thirty year time drought, it isn’t as if there are that many pregnant women in this town anyways.

Belle’s skittish, fidgeting mercilessly in the cab they take to the hospital, and she shakes, all over, as they approach the entrance. At that Gold stops, and offers his hand to her, the only gesture of comfort he can offer beyond wrapping her up in his arms and herding her back into the car and away from this place. After a long moment, with a hesitant, painfully grateful look Belle finally takes his hand, and they walk together back into this place-this root of all of her nightmares-where once they are inside, they are met by a nurse and Dr. Whale and led to an examination room.

He'd frankly prefer anyone other than Regina’s damned oversized fish as Belle’s doctor-even the bloody _Cricket_ would do-but Whale is the only one with any training in obstetrics-real or curse created alike-in this damned town. And so Gold settles for glaring at Whale from his position at Belle’s side, painting a clear picture for him of what Gold will do to him if he upsets Belle.

Under Gold’s…less than friendly stare, Whale wisely makes his business short, checking Belle’s heart rate and blood pressure, and quickly taking a small sample of her blood for testing.  Then there are a few moments of waiting, while Whale does a sundry of various doctor-like things-although Gold wouldn’t put the idea that he’s stalling just to make it uncomfortable past him.

“Everything seems you good-you’re in excellent health,” Whale says after a few moments, finally done with whatever it was he was actually doing, and Gold breathes a tiny sigh of relief, as he finishes, “Just take these pre-natal vitamins once a day and make sure you get enough rest.”

And then Whale gets a look that means he’s about to try to do his mistresses bidding, and he starts, “I…,” but at Gold’s dark look of warning, Whale swallows, losses his nerve and abruptly changes direction. “I’ll go get the ultrasound technician,” he says and then veritably flees the room.

“What was that about?” Belle asks, puzzled, and turning her gaze to his face and Gold puts the most innocent expression her can manage on-which is to say, not very, if he’s being honest.

“I haven’t the faintest, dearie,” he lies smoothly as an answer, though he is unable to stop the tiny smirk from creeping onto his face, “Perhaps he was late for something.”

Belle looks at him with a healthy dose of suspicion-she was always a sharp girl, his Belle-but he’s saved by the timely arrival of the ultrasound technician.

She’s a matronly like woman-no nonsense manner but a kind face, and a kind voice as she asks, “Isobel French?”

“Yes that’s me,” Belle answers, voice soft, still not truly comfortable speaking to strangers.  However if the woman notices Belle’s trepidation-and Gold thinks she does-she pays no mind to it as she looks over to him before she continues, “Excellent. And is this the father?”

And although Gold’s face stays admirably bland, his hand spasms, once, on the handle of his cane; the only indication that the woman’s words have registered with him.

That one _hurts_.

But his gesture goes unnoticed as Belle responds, “No…he’s just…here for me,” fumbling, clearly uncomfortable. But the technician, a woman who has a look about her that’s says she’s seen it all brushes away the awkwardness easily, with her simple, sincere remark of, “Well that’s very sweet.”

Then she turns, and starts to prepare the procedure, bantering with Belle and applying the gel to her exposed stomach, and at her lack of fear or condemnation, Gold gives a moment’s thought to her. The ultrasound technician is no one he recognizes, but that isn’t a surprise. All the random towns people got dragged here by the curse as well and he can’t be expected to know all of the little people.

That was never his style.

But perhaps he should reconsider, at least for this woman, because she is professional and supportive, and she’s put Belle at ease with the whole process; an impressive feat, considering Belle’s history with this place.  And, perhaps, most surprisingly, she also isn’t glaring at him, or making him feel like he doesn’t belong here, with Belle and her- _their_ -baby, which is an extremely pleasant surprise, and it earns her tremendous points in Gold’s book.

However he’s drawn out of his contemplation and back into the moment as the woman says, to both of them, voice kind, “There’s the baby.”

And everything just _stops_.

Because there, on the grainy black and white screen, is his baby.

And Belle, even if she isn’t really _his Belle_ , is holding his hand.

And he can’t do anything but marvel, because there is her little hand, wrapped around his, while they look at-even if she doesn’t know it- _their_ baby.  Because this is Isobel-who is not Belle-sharing this moment with him, when she’s certainly under no obligation to do so.

He could die at this very moment, and consider himself a fortunate man.

However the woman is speaking again, and so Gold forces himself to listen again, knowing that it’s likely important.  “It looks like you’re about 32 weeks, and everything looks good with the baby,” she says, and then she asks, “Do you want to know the sex?”

“I’m not sure,” Belle says and she sends her gaze to his-not, he knows so much for his input as simply for support, and so he fights down any opinions he might have on the subject and says, as warmly as he can, “It’s up to you, dear.”

After a long moment, where Gold finds himself holding his breath, Belle finally nods in affirmation, and so the technician smiles and, after a few moments of fiddling with the wand, she says, voice kind, “It’s a girl.”

_A daughter._

Yes, let it be known that the being formerly known as Rumpelstiltskin, is at this moment, _happy_.

Belle clearly is as well, if the happy little tears that leak from the corners of her eyes and the stunning smile she offers him are any indication.  The technician smiles a bit in the background, lets them have their moment, and then, when Belle’s gaze finally drifts away from him she disconnects Belle from the machine professionally, and says in a kind manner, “You can go wipe off the rest of the gel and fix yourself up in the washroom, sweetheart.”

Belle nods in agreement, and after one last awestruck look at the monitor, goes to do just that, leaving Gold and the technician alone.  After the door has closed behind Belle, the technician turns towards him, and pins him with a level look, but the disapproval that Gold was expecting never comes, as the woman says instead, “That girl needs someone to look after her. So you better take care of her,”

“Until my dying breath,” he says simply, once he is over his surprise, meaning every word; pouring all the feelings he has to keep hidden from Belle into them.

“Good,” the woman says, a measure of strong satisfaction in her voice, and then, as if she hasn’t done something extraordinary, she simply turns away from him at Belle’s return to hand her the ultrasound pictures.

Yes, Rumpelstiltskin thinks, perhaps he misjudged the little people.  At the very least, one random townsperson is getting a magical windfall of cash.  Or perhaps, when they get back to the Enchanted Forrest, a herd of cattle.

Townspeople like cattle, right?

He’ll figure something out.

They don’t talk much as they leave the hospital and head home-something frankly Gold is glad for, as the events of the last hour have left him feeling a little raw; even if it is in the best way.  She does hold his hand for the whole way though, a thankful comfort for the both of them.  They continue that way until they reach the kitchen, where Belle finally drops his hand-and he tries not to mourn that loss too much-and breaks the silence.

“Do you mind?” She asks hesitantly, gesturing towards the fridge with one of the pictures, her intent clear in her eyes.

“No,” he says in response, and he can’t think of anything more true in this world. No, of course he doesn’t mind. He’d personally prefer blowing the photo up and posting it on a billboard in the center of town, but he concedes that might be a bit excessive.

The fridge is a decent compromise.

Given his permission, Belle puts the photo up, unearthing a few lost magnets that Gold didn’t even know he had, and then, after a second of staring at it with slightly damp eyes, she offers him a grateful look and then leaves the room, likely, he imagines, headed back to her beloved library.

He lets her go, because he too understands the need for solitude, especially when dealing with emotion like this, but after a few hours he finds himself drawn to the library as well, a helpless moth to a flame.  Belle looks up at his arrival-reading, as usual-and offers him a tiny nod of greeting, which he returns before he seats himself in the other chair and opens a book of his own.  He plans on reading-truly, he does-but his attention is drawn away from the book and onto Belle-her hand, tracing lazy circles over the place where their child sleeps, and her eyes bright as she takes in her book-and so he takes a moment to simply contemplate the place they have found themselves in.

It is not perfect-not hardly, this he will readily admit to-but it is good; _so_ much better than he could have ever dreamed.

And then Belle smiles at him over her book, a shy thing, but blossoming with the growing seeds of trust, and Gold is helpless to do anything but smile back.

He is not unhappy.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, this chapter was long! And surprisingly tough to write! There’s a temptation to run before you can walk, and so it’s hard to go slow and let them progress at their own rate, especially when, as a shipper myself I just want to see them happy together! But angsty Gold is such a magnificent woobie, isn’t he? Also, yes, Gold is going to continue calling Isobel Belle in his own mind, because to me, that’s his one motivation; get Belle back, and that’s a way for him to hold onto that dream.  
> And, now, for those of you that like a timeline for your stories, here it is. Pregnancy is 40 weeks, which is close to 10 months (we were all lied to about the 9 months thing) and Isobel is 32 weeks, giving her 8 weeks left; about 2 months. Therefore, she spent about 3-4 months in Regina’s magical castle, 30 years in stasis (like Ashley/Cinderella) and it’s been about (at least for me) about 3-4 months since Emma came; making her about 7 months pregnant when Gold and Emma busted her out. Add the one month that this chapter covers, and you’ve got 8 months! Ok, so enough anal retentive baby math!  
> Additionally, Gold’s curse name, Alastair, is because it’s a Scottish name that starts with A (which seems to be pretty accepted in this fandom) and also frankly, sounds kind of twisty and villainous, like say, Rumpelstiltskin, and I thought it fit. That said, it will likely never be mentioned again, making this entire exchange pointless. Meh. So, next up, Belle/Isobel’s POV to adjusting to living with Gold and gradually developing, you know…feelings. So finally, before this note turns into its own chapter, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	6. Home, Or Something Like It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. You people are kind of forgetful, aren’t you?

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

 _“Home is where the heart is.”_ -Pliny the Elder

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

Isobel hadn’t really been expecting much when she’d accepted Gold’s offer.

A room, a roof over her head, and place to hide from Regina would have been enough.

Compared to the actual reality of living with him, Isobel can’t believe she’d ever been willing to settle for so little.

That is not to say that everything was sunshine and roses from the start; certainly not.

This isn’t a fairy-tale, after all.

Despite his kindness, he’s still a stranger, and she’s in a strange land.  She’s never lived with anyone other than her father, so sharing space is awkward, especially since she still hasn’t worked up enough courage to comfortably ask him for things.  He hasn’t gotten angry at-or even said no to-any of her requests yet, but Isobel’s been locked up on her own for too long to feel comfortable relying on anyone again. 

And of course, beyond the average, everyday awkwardness, there are the more serious things.  Her nightmares, for example, where she wakes, screaming, images of dark, cold eyes and empty cribs and faceless parents for her daughter burned into her eyes are an ever present thing. And although Gold holds her for every one of them and never complains about doing it, there is a part of Isobel that is still waiting for him to change his mind and evict her for the pleasure of a full night’s sleep-she wouldn’t even blame him if he did.

Then as an added bonus, there are the trials and tribulations that are simply associated with pregnancy, because as miraculous and wonderful as it is, it is also entirely strange. Her body doesn’t quite feel her own anymore, and although she seems to have been spared most of the negative side effects-she had no morning sickness in the cell, she rarely feels hot flashes and she’s not overly tired or depressed-it is still a strange and frightening thing to look at her stomach and realize that beneath that massive swell-which causes plenty of its own problems, especially in the sitting and getting back up department-is a little person who is going to rely on her for everything.

And, although Isobel finds herself more open to sharing with Gold as she spends more time with him, there are certainly still limits that exist on their conversations-carefully drawn boundaries that neither of them dare cross.  They almost never mention their pasts-not that Isobel has the greatest recollection of her own past anyways-but Gold’s avoidance is always an extremely well-constructed thing.  Isobel thinks she perhaps knows why-she thinks that, perhaps years ago there was a son, because she’s seen the room at the end of the hall, a strange mess of children’s toys and men’s clothing. But Isobel never presses, because there clearly _isn’t_ a son now, and Isobel has no desire to poke a perhaps still bleeding wound.

She is no stranger to that kind of pain, after all.

Additionally, there are other side effects of her incarceration-she isn’t overly fond of crowds, doesn’t really know how talk to people who aren’t Gold, Emma, or occasionally Emma’s son Henry, and she especially isn’t fond of people trying to touch her stomach.  She feels bad about that little exchange, she really does, but apparently Mr. Glass’s hand has healed well-no lasting damage.

Gold had been oddly pleased at her action.

And in that vein, Isobel harbors no illusions on the type of man Gold can be.  She has heard the rumors about him in town, and although she gives little weight to rumors on principle, her instincts still tell her that, if provoked, Gold is undoubtedly the most dangerous person in this town. Even more so, Isobel is entirely aware of what happened between Gold and her father.  He told her himself-sat her down and, though his hands had shaken slightly, had explained the story with a level voice and kind eyes-though even if he hadn’t, Storybrooke is a small town, and even given her limited exposure to it, she would have heard eventually.  That he told her himself speaks of courage, though, and Isobel, for some bizarre unexplained reason, is almost proud of him. 

And so yes, perhaps she should have been angry with him, because he had put her father in the hospital, but Isobel sees the real pain, the true regret in his eyes when he tells the story, and although he is obviously leaving some details out about the woman behind the story, Isobel knows that he did it only because he was desperate and hurting, and so, although Isobel isn’t sure if he’s a good man who’s done bad things or a bad man trying to do good, or neither-she still forgives him easily. 

Whoever the woman was-the chipped-cup woman that he lost-was a lucky woman, to have had him love her so.

She tries to ignore the strange feeling in pit of her stomach that thought always prompts.

And, although she hates to admit it, there is some, small part of her, that is, for some strange, unexplained reason, oddly satisfied by what he did.

Because, the bottom line still remains; her father never visited her-never came for her-left her and her child at the mercy of Regina.

At most, Gold’s actions bother her, sometimes, in that it doesn’t bother her more.

But only sometimes.

Because, well, he’s really trying- _so_ hard, and for the most part he’s succeeding-to make her comfortable and to make her happy.

That means more to Isobel than anything he did in the past, and more than any gift he could give, though the library runs a close second.

And of course, she cannot forget the hospital appointment; how he’d gone with her when he’d certainly been under no obligation to, how he’d held her hand, the entire time, just to comfort her.  Of how he’d looked at the sonogram-eyes so soft and _awestruck_ -at a child that isn’t even his, for the sole reason-though Isobel is only guessing here-that he’s promised to protect the mother.

Surely, a man who does these kinds of things is worth her trust.

And so, as one month of their arrangement bleeds into two, Isobel can say that they’re becoming friends, she and Gold.

This, of course, is where her problems truly start.

Because lately, Isobel’s feelings towards Gold have started to become…a bit more than friendly.

And well, she supposes to a certain extent it makes sense. She’s all alone with him in this house-this little world all of their own-and she’s basically a ball of hormones with legs at this point, so maybe it’s natural that she’s starting to develop some…less than platonic feelings for him.

Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome.

Isobel _wishes_ it was Stockholm Syndrome, because that would be easy to explain.

Because this, this twisted, warm butterfly feeling in her stomach, is anything but easy.

Because there is the library, and breakfast, and holding her when she cries and that little half smile he does when he sees her, and all of the other countless little things that he does for her, just for the purpose of making her smile.

And then, of course, there is the Chocopologie incident.

See, the things is, most of the time, Isobel thinks being a bibliophile is great. It’s given her an array of varied knowledge on varied subjects, and has opened up a vast world of intelligent discussion and discourse.

Being a pregnant bibliophile is another thing entirely.

Because the problem with being a pregnant bibliophile is, that it turns run of the mill cravings into _impossible_ cravings.

Hence, Chocopologie.

Isobel is just innocently reading a _Foods of the World_ book when she comes across it; the world’s most expensive and rare chocolate, and that’s where her problems really begin.

Because well, its god awful expensive, made in only one part of the world that is _nowhere_ near Maine, and pretty much impossible to get.

Isobel is craving it like she’d _die_ without it.

She doesn’t mention it to Gold-it’s a ridiculous thing and no matter how kind he is to her or how good friends they’ve become and she can’t imagine that he’d appreciate her bothering him with it.  And it isn’t like he can do anything about it anyways; he’s only a man, after all, not a magician. Instead she just takes a Hershey’s bar, and tries to convince her cravings that it’s good enough.

It absolutely doesn’t work, by the way.

But then, a week and several Hershey bars later, when she comes down for breakfast, there is a little gold box sitting where her eggs and jam usually are.

Isobel shoots a puzzled look at Gold, who is standing by the island in the kitchen, fiddling with her breakfast, but he only shoots her a carefully blank-and totally fake, by the way, because Isobel is no fool-look and continues to appear totally absorbed with her breakfast.

So, with a shrug to herself in acceptance, because it’s apparent that no answers are going to be forth coming from him, Isobel sits and starts to unwrap the little box.  She removes the black bow carefully, and the gold wrapping paper without ripping it-a quirk of hers since childhood-and then, without much fanfare, she takes the cover off and looks inside.

And then she just _stares_.

Because there, inside beautifully delicate gold wrapping, is her Chocopologie.

After a few minutes of stunned contemplation, where Isobel tries and fails to figure out how he figured it out, and even more so, how he managed to pull this-the impossible-off, she finally gives up and turns, what she’s sure are huge eyes towards him and asks, voice bewildered and nearly awestruck, “How did you…?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about dear,” he says after a second, still fiddling with her plate, his tone trying for innocent and failing miserably, a telling twinkle in his eyes, “Must have been the chocolate fairies-nosy little buggers, they are.”

She stares at him for a long moment, feelings so complex that she could hardly even name them, but he never cracks, his innocent façade still firmly in place, though Isobel fancies that he is beginning to look a little apprehensive, like he fears that he’s made an error.  And because, despite all the things that she feels, that most certainly isn’t one of them and so she says after a moment, her voice soft and full of emotion, “Well I hope the chocolate fairies know how thankful I am.”

“I’m sure they do, dear,” he says, eyes soft, uncertainty gone as if it was never there, and then, after he finally lies the plate of breakfast in front of her, he gives her a gentle tilt of his head in goodbye, and he’s gone, headed out the door to work, and Isobel’s left sitting at the table, stomach fluttering madly.

What is she supposed to _do_ with this man, who does things like this for her?

She ruthlessly supresses the little voice that says it knows _exactly_ what to do with this man.

Freaking hormones.

And so, Isobel nibbles on her impossibly rare chocolate, slaking one craving, and tries to bury those _other_ troublesome cravings, and for the most part she succeeds.  And so, time passes, and Isobel gets more and more pregnant-to the point where it’s starting to get ridiculous. Because well, she knows that she’s 37 weeks-their last doctor’s appointment, where Gold had held her hand again, and her damn stomach had fluttered wildly at the gesture, had confirmed that, so she knows she’s still got a few weeks to go. 

But it’s just, she’s _so_ pregnant-and really, she does know how lucky she’s been-but she’s so large and ungainly and frankly, just about ready to not be pregnant anymore, thank you very much.

She’s also taken to cleaning the house and cooking-not well, she’ll admit-something that the books say is apparently pretty normal when you’re as pregnant as she is.  Gold takes the cooking with surprising aplomb, given how poor Isobel knows it is, but the cleaning seems to throw him, as when he comes downstairs to head to work and notices her dusting in the hallway he stops, dead on and stares.

 “You don’t have to do that my dear,” he says after a moment, voice strained, and when Isobel turns to look at him she notices a strangely stricken look on his face, “You’re not my maid.”

“The books says it’s nesting,” she says, tone trying for reassuring, hoping to make that strange, almost pained expression disappear. “Apparently it’s an instinctual response in preparation for childbirth.”

At that his expression most certainly changes-humorously, into some kind of stunned male shock.  His mouth opens, once, twice, but no sound comes out.  Thankfully-at least for him-he is saved by the sound of Emma knocking on the door, a few minutes early for their little get together. 

“ _Ah_ ,” he says finally, an adorably terrified look of uncomfortable male fear in his eyes as he finally unfreezes and moves down the hall to open the door to reveal Emma and Henry standing there. He sends one final, terribly cute dazed look back at her before he says, voice quick, “Well you three have a nice time,” and then, in the most dignified way possible, flees out the door.

Emma’s snort of laughter really doesn’t help with the dignity thing.

Isobel hides her own smile behind her hand as Emma and Henry come inside, and then her attention is caught by Emma’s surprised exclamation of, “Wow, you’re really pregnant! I remember how that was,” her voice full of both commiseration and kindness.

“Yes, well, I think I’m finally ready,” she agrees with a hint of a smile-not offended in the least.  Emma’s experiences with being pregnant are one of the main reasons why she and Isobel get along so well, as Isobel desperately appreciates the advice of someone who’s been there and done that, and Emma seems to enjoy trying to help.  There are other reasons, of course, but their shared experience definitely helps, Isobel acknowledges, as she presses a hand to her aching back in support as she makes her way back into the den, Henry and Emma following behind her.

Isobel looks back as they follow her, her gaze settling on Henry as she says, voice pleased. “And Henry, it’s so nice to see you again. I thought you’d have school.”

“Nope!” Henry says, his beaming smile fully on his face, but it is Emma who answers why, as she says, “In-service,” ruffling her son’s hair fondly before she continues, a soft contentment in her voice as she finishes, “And he really wanted to visit you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not!” Isobel says, and she means every word because she really enjoys Henry’s visits-she finds it’s almost impossible that Regina is his mother, given how sweet and innocent and brave and _good_ he is.  It is, she supposes, an interesting case study on the nurture vs. nature debate, or perhaps it’s simply due to the innate…Henryness the boy seems to have.

They’ve reached the den by that point, and so she sinks into her chair gratefully, glad to be off her feet-not that she can even see those anymore-and Henry and Emma both take a seat on the couch across from her.  After a quick, speaking look between mother and son, Henry buries himself in the fairy-tale book that he always seems to have whenever Isobel sees him, and Emma turns to Isobel, and asks, voice caring, “Have you given any more thought to seeing your father?”

This, in itself is not an easy question; she’s had one phone call with her father, where she had listened to the man who had raised her cry and try to explain, his voice hazy and almost confused, about how he had only been trying to do the best for her, and how Regina had told him that special, out of state treatment was the best option.  It had comforted her, a little, to know that he hadn’t known that she was locked up in the hospital basement-but only a little. Because it means, even though she can’t remember it, that he’d still let Regina take her, and Isobel is still too raw to forgive anyone for that just yet, even her father.

But she doesn’t want to try and explain all that-to anyone really but especially not with Henry sitting there, no matter how absorbed he seems to be in his book, and so instead she settles for the entirely inconsequential but also very true, “I just…can’t yet.”

“No pressure,” Emma says, a soft look of understanding in her eyes, and she gracefully lets the matter drop without further question.  Then, there is a moment of comfortable silence; Emma never asks about how she and Gold are doing-she told her in their first talk that until Isobel said otherwise it was none of her business- something that Isobel appreciates.  Anyone else, she knows, would dig incessantly, trying to discern all the details of her relationship with the town’s greatest villain-details that frankly Isobel can’t even explain to herself, much less to anyone else, and so Emma’s silence is a blessing.

Instead, Isobel breaks the silence, asking Emma with gentle curiosity, “How’s the week been for you?”

At that, Emma sighs, a long-suffering sound as she starts into a tale about a dwarf with a crush on a nun and the ever changing attitude of the town towards Mary Margaret, whom Isobel knows from previous talks, is in love with a married man.  For now, the town seems to have lessened its bitter attitude towards the school teacher, something that Isobel is grateful for, as from the few times that she has met Mary Margaret, she seems to have been a lovely, kind woman, whose only crime is falling in love with the wrong person.

Isobel sympathises; she is no stranger to wanting things she cannot have.

Once Emma finishes her tale, Isobel turns to Henry, and waiting until he’s raised his head from his book, she asks, partially because she is interested and partially to try and include him more in the conversation, “And how about you Henry-anything with that girl-Paige was it?”

“ _Emma!_ ” Henry says, all parental embarrassment, and Isobel can’t help but melt, just a little bit as she watches Emma and Henry interact, discussing the girl-whose name apparently is Paige-and Henry’s frankly adorable crush on her.  That discussion carries them through a few more minutes, with Isobel occasionally adding some-admittedly limited input, because she can’t remember one of her relationships and the other is a half imagined thing with Gold-while Emma smiles and gently needles her son, though her fondness is evident in every word and gesture.

When they’ve finally exhausted that topic, and Henry is cherry red, Emma looks at the clock and announces, perhaps to give her son a break or perhaps because it actually has been a while, “Well I’ve got to get back to work, but it was nice to see you again.”

Isobel smiles in responses, as she stands-not an easy process these days-and walks them back out to the door, replying, “And you as well, and Henry too. Please feel free to come back again.”

“We will,” Emma says with a smile, and then heads for her car.  Henry, however, hangs back for a second, gifts a strange look to his fairy-tale book and then to Isobel before he obviously comes to some sort of decision and says, quickly, “I can see why the beast fell in love with you,” voice kind and oddly sincere, before he runs out the door after Emma, leaving Isobel behind, pleasantly bewildered. 

He’s an impossibly sweet boy, but sometimes he makes absolutely no sense to Isobel.

However then Isobel mentally shrugs, because she supposes there are just things that one is not meant to understand, and so, with that dealt with she finds herself wondering what to do with herself for the rest of the day. She supposes she could head to the library and read, as is her habit in the afternoons, but she finds herself looking for something different today.

That in mind, she decides that she’ll go visit Gold in his shop.  A walk and a little fresh air could only do her good at this point, and truth be told, she’s never actually been to his shop before.  She’s seen the outside on her travels around town, of course, but Gold had never taken her in, and Isobel, still afraid to ask for things, had never pushed.

Her mind made up, it only takes her a few minutes to get ready and make her way out into the town-it’s a lovely sunny day, so Isobel is entirely comfortable in one of her pregnancy dresses-the blue one that Gold seems especially fond of and a simple white cardigan.  She nods simply at a few people she sees in greeting on the streets, but no one tries to draw her into a conversation, something that Isobel is grateful for.  She’s getting better at conversing with people other than Emma, Henry or Gold, but she’s still not comfortable enough to actively seek it. 

That said, it’s a short enough journey to Gold’s shop and Isobel, as slow and ungainly as she is, makes good time, as after no more than ten minutes she finds herself standing in front of the shop, it’s sign blandly proclaiming “Gold’s Antiques.”

The door jingles slightly as she enters, and Isobel notices the tiny, old fashioned bell that is attached to the door, oddly charmed by it.  However, Gold appears to be busy doing something behind the counter, as he doesn’t look up at the noise, and so Isobel takes the rare opportunity to watch him, unawares in his environment.

The man in the expensive suit standing behind the counter, surveying all his precious nick-knacks and antiques.

A dragon, protecting all his treasures.

She’s not sure where that thought came from.

She pushes that thought away in favor of something more playful, as she announces loudly, tongue-firmly-in-cheek, “So _this_ is where you disappear to each morning?”

He looks up at her voice and his eyes soften once he notices it’s her.  “Isobel,” he says warmly in greeting, not the Belle that he had called her once or twice early on, and it surprises her to feel a little twinge of regret at the change.

However she ignores that in favor of listening to Gold, as he asks, polite interest and genuine curiosity mixed together, “Did you have a good visit with Emma and young Henry?”

“Yes it was lovely,” she replies, smiling as she continues, “Henry has a crush-it’s adorably sweet.” And then something catches her attention in the corner of her eye and she asks, before he has time to reply about Henry, “What’s that?”

“A mobile,” he says, lifting the lovely little thing, all adorable, tiny handmade stuffed animals, up for her to better see as he continues, “for the nursery.”

Isobel loves the nursery; it’s cheery butter cream walls and it’s gorgeous, painted ceiling, sky blue with white fluffy clouds.  She would have been content to find second hand furniture-Gold certainly shows no hesitation in spending money on her, but his generosity sometimes makes her feel uncomfortable as there is no early way for her to repay him, and she hadn’t been sure that it would extend to her child anyways.  But then, one day, a few weeks ago, Isobel had walked into the nursery and just _stopped_ , because instead of the empty room she had been expecting, she was instead looking a fully furnished nursery, furniture all beautiful white wood, an adorable crib, change table, and perhaps, most lovely, a gorgeous rocking chair where Isobel can almost see herself rocking her daughter in. 

Looking at that chair, for the first time, Isobel truly felt like a parent.

This too, she will never be able to repay him for, and perhaps, most scary of all, he doesn’t even want her too.

It’s a thought that especially makes her stomach flutter.

But she attempts to pull herself away from more dangerous thoughts and back into the moment as she sends him a beaming smiling, announcing, “It’s perfect- thank you.” And then, the baby picks that moment to kick especially hard, and Isobel huffs loudly, half surprise half pain at the feeling, “Oh.”

“Dear are you alright?” Gold asks, voice moving rapidly from concern into fear as, mobile forgotten, he makes his way quickly around the counter to her side-an impressive pace for a man with a limp.

However because he looks like he’s about one wrong breath away from taking her to the hospital or calling the marines, Isobel hastens to reassure him, saying quickly, “No, she’s just kicking.”

“Here,” she says, and then, working entirely on a strange instinct that she can’t even begin to explain, she presses his unresisting hand to her stomach where her child seems to be doing some kind of interpretive dance, and asks, “Feel?”

And then, for a moment, everything just _stops_ -silence falls, and the world becomes entirely small, no larger than his hand resting over her child, and the reverence of the moment nearly leaves her breathless.

“It’s… _miraculous_ ,” he says after a long moment, finally breaking the heavy silence, and his eyes, so churning with emotion turn up to hers for a moment before they are helplessly pulled back to her stomach, where her daughter still continues to kick, playfully, almost like she’s pleased by Gold’s presence.

“Yes, yes it is,” she says slowly, hardly aware of what she is saying, still entirely enraptured by the moment-by look on his face as he stares at his hand on her stomach.

And it’s then that she realizes what she has been doing for the last few weeks.

She’s been _flirting_ with him.

_Shit._

This isn’t good.

Because she doesn’t want to stop.

And well, this is a path that can only lead to disappointment, because there is no earthly reason for him to be interested in her. She’s hormonal, as big as a house, waddles, and of course, let’s not forget, pregnant with someone else’s child-someone who she can’t even remember.

And if he is flirting back with her, then at best he’s just being kind, and at worst he’s thinking of the woman that he lost-the chipped cup woman. And even if-though Isobel is putting no stock in this-he has been flirting with her because he was interested in her, there still exists the fact that she shouldn’t even be flirting with him because there is still the matter of the mysterious someone-who Isobel infers from her ‘talks’ Regina is the father- a someone that likely cares about her and her child, and that she likely cared about as well.

But somehow all of those worries are swept onto the back of her mind as he finally takes his hand away from her stomach and looks at her, that little crinkle of the eyes thing that he does, and says, voice causally hopeful, “It’s a slow day-I imagine the world won’t end if I take the afternoon off and treat you and the little one to a nice, home-cooked meal. What say you?”

“Let’s go home,” she in return, the only thing that she can say, and realizes, quite suddenly, that she means it.

That living with him, in that great pink house, has become home for her.

He smiles at her, almost shyly, offers his arm to her, and Isobel’s heart stutters helplessly in return.

She’s in so much trouble.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Slow and steady people; that’s how we win the race! Isobel’s not in love with him-not yet-but she’s started on the right track, which makes it fun but also agonizing! Also, for anyone who was wondering if Gaston is going to make an appearance…he isn’t. Mostly because, I don’t really have a solid voice for the character, because he gets like, 5 minutes of screen time (as a human at least). I could write him as an asshole who wants to take the baby, but frankly, I don’t think that’s really true to his character, or really a probable motivation given my story premise. I think Gaston is an ok guy who is just superficial and self-important, and that we only really hate him because we like Rumpelstiltskin so much (who is technically a bad guy). It’s the Hannibal Lector effect; you know you shouldn’t root for the guy who eats people, but you do it anyways. So, no Gaston. But, if that really bothers you, then…Gaston is a rose bush in front of city hall. There, he’s included.   
> Also, because someone brought it up and it’s a valid point, there hasn’t been much Baelfire in this story yet, and I’m sorry to say that-for people who were hoping otherwise-it isn’t likely to change much as we go on. His influence will definitely be mentioned more, especially after the baby is born and Gold is interacting with her, but this is not a Balefire reunion fic-the artist formerly known as Baelfire will not make an appearance in this story, for reasons that will become more apparent as we go on, and also because I really want to focus on the Rumbelle baby aspect.  
> Finally, I kid you not, Chocopologie is a real thing- it costs $2,600 per pound. Look it up if you’ve got a moment, because it’s kind of mind blowing that people-real, live people-pay that much for chocolate. Next up; Jefferson. ‘Cause he’s the fucking Mad Hatter! And awesome. Let’s not forget awesome. That said, it might be a few days before it’s posted, because work just picked up, and writing has to take a back burner when that happens. Still, I will try my best, and as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	7. This Fragile House of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own the show. But I’m willing to steal Jefferson.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

 _“Everybody's a mad scientist, and life is their lab. We're all trying to experiment to find a way to live, to solve problems, to fend off madness and chaos”_ -David Cronenberg

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The thing is, Emma’s feelings about Mary Margaret are kind of mixed right now, but’s it’s not because of anything that Mary Margaret has actually done.

It’s just, well, Emma believes in the curse.

Which means that Mary Margaret is her mother.

The woman that Emma has only spent her entire life looking for.

But at the same time, she also isn’t her mother.

Because _Snow White_ is her mother; Snow White is the one who got pregnant, Snow White is the one that gave birth and Snow White is the one who sacrificed everything to make sure Emma got the best shot that she could.

And Mary Margaret, for all of her good qualities, is not Snow White.

So basically, Emma has to deal with the fact that her mother, who as a child Emma would have given anything to find, is sitting not a foot away from her, but that she doesn’t have any memory of actually being Emma’s mother.

She feels a deep, deep empathy with Gold right about now, because this, in a word, _sucks_.

So it’s fair to say that Emma’s a little preoccupied.

She imagines that it’s probably not a good enough excuse for almost hitting that guy though.

“Shit,” she says fervently, swerving just in time to miss the guy who appeared out of nowhere on the road in front of the car.  Mary Margaret makes a noise of surprise, and braces herself with a hand on the dash as they come to an abrupt stop. After a quick look at Mary Margaret, to make sure she is ok, Emma jumps out of the car to do the same for the guy.

He’s just off to the side of her car, and he’s unfolding himself as she comes over, and as he does it’s then that she finally gets a good luck at her almost victim, and when she does, she can’t help her first thought, because well.

_Wow._

She would have to almost run over the hottest guy in town, wouldn’t she?

Typical.

However she shakes off the entirely inappropriate return of her libido-an absent thing, since Graham’s death; something that still hurts, even now-in favor of the more practical-seeing if the guy is unharmed. “Are you ok?” She asks, looking him over as he stands and takes a few steps, and then, before he can answer she says, voice soaked with guilt, “Shit, you’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” the guy says, eyes meeting hers, voice delightfully smooth, and Emma ignores the little flutter it prompts in her stomach, instead addressing the fact that he’s hurt and it was her fault, saying, “No you’re not-let me give you a ride home-you know, to make up for nearly running you over.”

“I never say no to a beautiful woman,” he answers suavely, giving an acquiescing nod of his head as he makes his way over to her and the car.

“Emma,” she says, once he’s reached her, thrusting her hand out towards him, and then, because by this point Mary Margaret has gotten out of the car to see what’s going on, “And this is Mary Margaret.”

“Jefferson,” he says, and then, of all things, he actually _kisses her hand_ , before he finishes, looking up coyly at her from behind lowered lashes, “Enchanted, I assure you.”

Then he straightens up and gives a polite nod to Mary Margaret, tipping an imaginary hat towards her, a gesture that prompts a shy smile from the school teacher-an expression that has been woefully absent as of late, and Emma feels a sudden spark of gratitude towards him.

That exchange done, they all pile back into her little car, Jefferson packing himself into the back seat without protest, and once they’re all in Emma cranes her head back and asks, “So where do you live?”

“It’s only a short drive that way,” he says, pointing forwards, and so Emma starts up the engine and starts heading in that direction, figuring he’ll give her more directions as they get closer. After a moment of silence, Jefferson breaks it, asking politely, “So what brings you ladies out today?”

“Just a drive to…clear our heads,” Emma finally answer’s vaguely, hardly wanting to explain Mary Margaret’s love life problems and her own…complicated family situation to anyone, much less _this_ guy. 

However he seems satisfied with her answer as he replies after a moment, “A cloudy head can be a…terrible thing,” voice strangely serious and far away, but before Emma has the opportunity to ask him about it, he points out the window, saying, “It’s this one here.”

And then, all her attention is entirely consumed by the house that Jefferson has gestured to, because seriously, this is a mansion of the seriously impressive class.

Gorgeous and loaded.

Emma’s libido is seriously interested now.

Emma sends herself a mental scolding at the thought, and forces herself back into the moment, catching Mary Margaret’s hushed, “ _Wow_ ,” that she says into the silence as they pull up into the massive driveway in front of the house.

“My humble abode,” Jefferson says as he steps out of the car, and both Emma and Mary Margaret follow suit, as he brushes away their admiration with a dismissive gesture of his hand as he continues, “Please, ladies, let me offer you some tea, as a thank you for the ride.”

“I don’t-” Emma starts, not sure if spending any more time in his company is a good idea, given the…less than professional urges she’s starting to develop, but she’s cut off abruptly by Mary Margaret’s quick, “Of course we will, thank you.”

Emma pushes her surprise at Mary Margaret’s unexpected fervor-she never cuts anyone off-in order to listen to Jefferson’s, “Excellent! Please, follow me,” And then he leads them into his home, and into a small sitting room, before he says, “Make yourselves comfortable while I go prepare the tea,” and then he disappears into another room to go do just that.

Once they are alone again, Mary Margaret breaks the silence, whispering to Emma, “ _Please_ , tell me you’re going to go for him.”

“ _Mary Margaret!_ ” She hisses out of the corner of her mouth, entirely surprised at the uncharacteristic statement from her friend and quasi-mother-and doesn’t that really just make it strange, because at the age of 28 Emma is finally having the talk about boys with her mother.

“What? He’s gorgeous and my love life is a Greek tragedy,” Mary Margaret whispers, and her voice becomes forcibly cheerful as she finishes, “One of us should at least be happy.”

“Hey…” Emma starts, not sure what she’s actually going to say, because really, what is there that she _could_ say to comfort her when all she’s done is spoken the honest truth, but she’s saved by the arrival of Jefferson, carrying a tea tray with three cups already full, and a little creamer and container of sugar.  He sets the tray on the table, and with a smile, picks up the cup in the middle, gesturing with his shoulders for them each to take a cup, adding, “Tea is served. Please, drink up.”

“Thank you,” Emma and Mary Margaret both say in response, Emma adding a little sugar to her tea, something that Mary Margaret does as well-like mother like daughter, Emma supposes-before they both take a sip.

“This is lovely,” Mary Margaret says in response to Jefferson, and Emma agrees, taking another sip agreeably.

“I’m glad you like it,” Jefferson answers, a smile on his face, but there’s something wrong with it-something that sets off Emma’s gut-as he finishes, “It’s my own blend.”

 

However, the wrongness of the smile quickly begins to make sense, as the world begins to whirl in front of Emma’s eyes, and she blinks furiously, the gesture to no avail, as she asks, voice slurred, “What did you…?”

At that, Jefferson sets down his cup and makes his way over to Emma, ignoring Mary Margaret who has already passed out, his walk smooth, and Emma stares, as it twigs for her, forcing it out, “You’re not…limping anymore.”

“Caught me, I’m afraid,” he says, voice almost apologetic, and then, as Emma feels herself finally loosing that last handhold on consciousness, she hears him say, just before her eyes finally close, voice strangely soft, “I didn’t realize you’d be so…beautiful.” 

And then darkness.

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When she wakes, Emma becomes aware of three things immediately; she’s been drugged, her head hurts, and her arms and legs are tied up.

And it’s then that she takes a moment, just too truly appreciate the irony of this situation because, well, she made it through 18 years of the foster care system unscathed, only to get roofied by a damn fairy-tale character?

They do not pay her enough for this.

However, moment over, she becomes more aware, and so she sobers and does a quick check of her surroundings, taking in the new room they’re in quickly, before her eyes settle on a terrified Mary Margaret, hands and feet bound beside her, eyes huge and fearful.

“Are you hurt?” She asks Mary Margaret, looking for injuries, but Mary Margaret shakes her head negative, and so Emma switches over to thinking about how to get her out of those ropes.

“Just wait a second-I’ll get you out of these,” she says to Mary Margaret after a moment, an idea firmly in place as she grabs one of the jagged pieces of her tea cup in her hands, scooting over to a position where she can start to free Mary Margaret.

It’s a fairly easy thing to cut the ropes on her hands-look, Emma had a misguided youth, and some of this stuff had to come in handy at some point-and once she’s done that she hands the chipped piece to Mary Margaret so she can free her own legs. Once she’s done that, she makes to free Emma, but Emma shakes her head, because she thinks that, whatever is going on here, it’s her that Jefferson needs, not Mary Margaret, and if its curse related than Emma is willing to take her chances and stay, because well, she is the Savior after all.

She’s going to have to get used to living the impossible at some point.

Mary Margaret sends her an entirely puzzled, and still frankly terrified look at her gesture, and so Emma says, voice calming, “Mary Margaret, I need you to do something for me.”  And she whispers it slowly, to make sure that she doesn’t miss it in her shock, “I need you to go get Mr. Gold-tell him what’s happened and where I am. He’ll know what to do, alright?”

“I can’t just leave you _here_ ,” Mary Margaret replies, frantic, and her hands flutter widely, and so Emma says, calmly, “Yes you can.” And then she waits until Mary Margaret meets her eyes again before she says, infusing all of her mixed feelings for this woman who is her mother but not into her voice, “You can do it, Mary Margaret. You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

“I’ll go get Mr. Gold for you,” Mary Margaret finally agrees, before she takes Emma’s shoulders and says, “And you _better_ be alright when he gets here,” her eyes fierce, and Emma imagines that this is what she was like when she was Snow White.

When she was Emma’s mother.

But because that thought won’t help anyone, she bites back the tears that want to come, and promises, voice mostly level, “I’ll do my best.”

It must be enough for Mary Margaret, as, with one more intense look at Emma, she finally leaves, heading silently for the door, and Emma holds her breath until she closes it behind her, and the faint sound of car starting up can be heard.

Once Mary Margaret is safely gone, Emma breathes deeply, and takes a second to do a more through sweep of her environment, hoping to pick up a clue of what is going on-and perhaps more importantly who Jefferson _really_ is.

She hits the jackpot clue wise when, as she cranes her head left, she takes in an entire wall of massive top-hats, displayed on glass shelves and back lit, and at that, Emma’s pretty sure she’s got it.

Crazy guy, wall of hats and tea.

Well that answers _that_ question.

Of course, speak of the devil and he shall appear, Jefferson picks that moment to come back into the room, one of those great, stupid hats on his head and a pair of sharp, silver scissors in his hands.  However he stops short as he notices Mary Margaret’s absence, and a delightedly mad glimmer comes into his eyes as he turns back to Emma and purrs, voice almost cheerful, “Now, I think we’re one guest short to the party. Where is the little princess?”

“Gone,” Emma says, voice firm, and her unsaid ‘she isn’t here so don’t even bother’ is entirely clear.

“So you let her go, but didn’t go yourself,” he says after a moment, tapping his lips with the scissors absently, voice contemplative as he drawls curiously, “Now why would the little Swan do that?”

“So, the Mad Hatter, huh?” She says instead, ignoring his question, voice entirely casual and level as she asks, “How’s that working out for you?”

“You _believe_?” Jefferson says, voice truly surprised as he takes in her statement for what it was, and then his voice dips, becomes almost petulant, “Ruin my fun why don’t you; I had a whole thing planned out you know,” he says, appearing for all intents and purposes, genuinely disappointed, and then of all things, he pouts.

It shouldn’t be cute.

It totally is.

Why do all the hot ones have to be psychos?

She ruthlessly supresses that thought in favor of the more practical, “So, you remember?” Because frankly she’s curious about how he managed to escape the memory part of the curse-the only person, as far as she can tell, other than Gold, and he made the curse, so he doesn’t really count.

“A punishment, from our dear Evil Queen. Two lives trapped inside one head. You might say it’s enough to make a man a little… _mad_ ,” he answers with theatrical flourish, tipping his great hat off his head and bowing in her direction, in an overly dramatic sweep.

“Cute,” she says flatly, raising an eyebrow at him in response, clearly not that impressed, because hey, she faced down Rumpelstiltskin, and it’s going to take more than a hat trick to impress her.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” he returns, not quite a question, a strange look in his eyes as he twirls the scissors absently in his hands, the motion deliberate in its casualness.

“You don’t seem very scary,” she fires back, and then she backtracks a bit because poking a bear with a stick-especially a crazy one with a weapon-is never a good idea as she continues, “Besides, you need me alive to break the curse.”

“You’re a sharp one, you know that?” He says, pointing at her ironically with the scissors he’s still holding, a glint of what Emma thinks is perhaps approval in his eyes.

However Emma is saved from having to respond, as at that moment Gold appears in the doorway to the room, an unlikely knight in his three piece suit, but-and Emma would have never thought she’d ever be saying this-even though she thinks the worst of the danger has passed, she’s entirely glad to see him.

Gold, with his typical brutal efficiency takes a quick summation of the situation, eyes darting quickly from Emma to Jefferson and back, and when he notes Emma’s lack of fear he relaxes a bit, his aura of calm, casual indifference and power once again surrounding him before he turns his attention back to Jefferson.

“Jefferson,” Gold drawls after a moment, voice entirely bored, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors? You might get hurt.”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Jefferson fires back, a manic look in his eyes, “I don’t have any children to bargain with today.” And then his voice becomes sly, and designed to wound as he purrs, “But then word on the street is neither do you; at least none that remember you.”

And, because if the look in Gold’s eyes is any indicator, Emma can see this getting ugly pretty damn fast, she whistles loudly, waiting until both pairs of eyes are on her before she announces, voice chastising, “Hey, time out. You boys can whip them out and measure them later-still tied up here.”

At that Gold smirks, rolls his eyes discreetly, his stance becoming less tense and he takes a seat on one of the chairs as Jefferson smiles, his eyes contemplative before he bows again and brandishes the scissors theatrically, before finally bending down to cut her free.  “You’re not what I was expecting,” he says, and Emma has to suppress a shiver, because she can feel his breath on her ear, and so she shoots back, voice testy, “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” he purrs into her neck as he cuts the last rope, voice deviously smooth, “This is much more _fun_!” And then, he lifts his head and gives her a half-cheeky, half-flirtatious wink before he finally moves away, and gives her some much needed breathing room.

“Right…” Emma starts, rubbing her wrists to return circulation as she sits as well, ignoring Jefferson’s entirely too satisfied look from his own chair as she continues, “So I imagine you kidnapped me for a reason. Unless this is how you treat all the girls,” she says, and then mentally slaps herself because really, flirting with the crazy guy who just drugged her and kidnapped her is not a good idea, no matter how hot he is.

First the Queen’s Huntsman and now the Mad Hatter.

Her libido is going to have a stern talking to after this.

At that, Jefferson finally sobers, his voice becoming serious as he says, “I need you to make something for me-a hat.”

“Seriously?” Emma finds herself asking, voice sceptical as she continues, “Isn’t hat making kind of, you know, your thing? Mad _Hatter_ , and all that.”

“This is very special hat,” Jefferson explains, a tone of forced patience in his voice, “A hat that will take my daughter and I back home, where we belong.”

“Your daughter?” She asks, entirely surprised, because she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of a little girl so far, or frankly any indication in this house-not, that she’s seen that much of it, she admits, but still, you’d think there’d be signs-that anyone other than Jefferson lives here.

“Grace,” he says, eyes soft, and then, as fast as lightening they harden again, as he continues, “Though you’d probably know her as Paige. Another…gift from our dear Queen; my own daughter doesn’t remember me.”

“ _You’re_ Paige’s dad?” Emma asks, surprise clear in her voice, because it’s hard to reconcile the lovely little girl that Henry has the sweetest crush on as being the daughter of the _Mad Hatter_ , because for all that he seems like he truly loves his daughter, he’s definitely, well, more than a little _mad_.

“ _Grace_ -her name is Grace.” He says again, voice tight and eyes somewhere between manic and pain, before he calms a bit, “And yes, I am.”

“I feel for you, I really do,” Emma says after a moment, and it’s true, because no matter what, she’s still his daughter, and Emma’s no stranger to the pain of watching your kid with another family, “but while I can do a lot of things, magic hat making is not one of them.”

And then, as the thought occurs to her, she turns to Gold and asks, because frankly, if Rumpelstiltskin and the Mad Hatter can be in the room with her, maybe magical hat making isn’t entirely impossible, “Is it?”

“You’re welcome to try dearie,” he replies, an amused glint in his eyes as he continues, “but as you’re a magically null being in a world without magic, I’d guess the result would be just another ugly hat.”

“Behave,” she scolds dryly and Gold smirks in response, an entirely unrepentant look on his face. Jefferson watches the exchange with a smile, and a strange glint in his eyes, before he says, voice once again that smooth, charming drawl that makes her stomach flutter, “I _like_ you. You’ve got muchness.”

“Right…Putting a pin in _that_ ,” Emma says, because really, what do you say to something like that-whatever that meant-and then she sobers, leans forward and says, as kindly but as earnestly as she can manage, “You can’t go see your daughter; she doesn’t know who she is, and it would be traumatic.”

Jefferson scowls fiercely at that, but he doesn’t protest, and so, one bomb temporarily defused, Emma does her best to ignore Gold’s I-want-to-kill-things-with-my-bare-hands look that comes over his face, because well, that one was a little close to home for all of them.

And then, realizing how she sounds she switches gears a bit, because she gets it, she really does, she turns back to Jefferson and starts, “Look, I know that you’ve been through a lot…”

“You, my pretty little swan, know _nothing_ ,” Jefferson cuts her off, voice biting, and the madness is definitely rising again as he continues, “I’ve spent 28 years, trapped in this house, the same day repeated over and over again, another day, another failed hat. All while living with the knowledge that my daughter is happy with another family and doesn’t remember me-a pain, by the way, that makes having my head chopped off feel like a flesh wound.” He says, and then he carries on before Emma has a chance to ask what the ever-living fuck _that_ means, “The only way I survived that was thinking about what I’m going to do her royal majesty when the curse was lifted.”

And then he smiles, and it is a terrible thing that sends chills-of the not good kind-down Emma’s spine as he elaborates, a mad glint in his eyes, “And _oh_ , the things I’m going to do to her would make your stomach turn.  I’m going to start with off with her head. And then it’s _really_ going to get messy.” And then, suddenly, in one of those quicksilver mood changes he seems to favor, he is entirely courteous, attention now focused on Gold, “You’re welcome to join in when the time comes, Rumpel-we both know you want to.”

Gold rolls his eyes at the nickname, but there’s something in them that Emma tries to ignore, because frankly he’s looks far too much like he’s _agreeing_ with Jefferson’s statement for Emma to feel comfortable.

And so she says, after a moment, voice stern in an attempt to regain some control and reassert some sanity again, “You both remember I’m the Sherriff, right?”

“Only in this world, sweetheart,” Jefferson purrs back, all crazy charm but at the same time, almost terribly sincere, “All others are fair game.”

Emma takes a deep, calming breath, because there is no way she’s going down _that_ particular rabbit hole, pardon the turn of phrase, before she says, voice level and earnest as she can make it, “Homicidal intentions aside, what I was _going_ to say was that I promise to do everything I can to help you get your daughter back.”

And then she meets Jefferson’s eyes with her own, “But I need you to promise me that you won’t approach her until she knows who you are.”

Jefferson seems genuinely surprised at that, and some of the madness bleeds out of his eyes-but only some-as he asks, voice a smooth, vaguely mocking drawl, “And why, knowing what I intend to do to Regina, would you-the good Sheriff-want to help me?”

“Children should be with their parents,” Emma says quietly in answer, meeting both his and Gold’s eyes, knowing that she is preaching to the converted.

At that, Jefferson’s eyes finally clear, and soften a bit, before he says, voice sincere but still entirely overdramatic, “Deals are really more Rumpel’s thing, but I suppose I can agree to the terms of yours.”

“ _Great._ ” Emma says, half sincere and half sarcastic, because really, there’s only about a million and one things that could wrong with this, but at least it’s a start, and perhaps it’ll keep him from drugging people.  In response to her tone, he places his hand over his heart dramatically, and shoots her an exaggeratedly wounded look that Emma absolutely shouldn’t find charming.

She does, of course, because her taste in men is the _absolute_ worst.

However, Emma is once again saved by Gold, as at that moment a cell phone chimes blandly, announcing a text message.  Since Emma knows it isn’t hers-the tone is wrong-and frankly, Jefferson doesn’t look the cellphone type, being that he’s been trapped in his house for 28 years and doesn’t have anyone to call, she turns her attention to Gold, who is fishing a small-gold naturally-phone out of his suit pocket.

“You text?” Emma finds herself asking, surprised, because Gold, despite being a business man, just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be a cellphone enthusiast-Rumpelstiltskin even less so.

“I’m a man of many of layers, Sherriff,” he says, half absently as his eyes scroll through the process of receiving his message, “And birds just aren’t as useful as they used to be, in the Enchanted Forest.” And then he goes entirely rigid in his seat as he actually reads the text, and in the next second he shoots Emma a look, so dark that it reminds her exactly why everyone in town is afraid of him, before he’s on his feet and moving.

“Regina is with Belle,” Gold bites off, the only information he spares her as, eyes fierce, he heads out the door, his I’m-going-to-kill-things-with-my-bare-hands face firmly in place again.

Emma swears, so colorfully that Jefferson raises an eyebrow and looks _appraising_ of all things, and so Emma sends him a warning look-and then sends one to _herself_ because her freaking stomach just fluttered again-and heads for the door after Gold.

She wouldn’t mind if Gold smacked Regina around a bit, but then Emma would then have to arrest him, and the faces that Isobel would make would break her heart.

So she’s going to go defend the Evil Queen from Rumpelstiltskin.

They _absolutely_ do not pay her enough for this.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dundundun! Regina! Because frankly, we all need a little more evil in our lives. Well, I guess I lied to you, because that was up pretty quick after all! Anyways, that was my Jefferson; he’s tough, because I feel he really is twisted and well, mad, but at the same time he loves his daughter so much, so you’re never really sure how far to take it. That said, the muchness thing comes from Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, where Alice is told she’s lost her muchness and she responds, later, that she hasn’t. As I’m inferring that Alice was Grace’s mother, it’s intended to be a compliment/flirty comment to Emma. And as for the Jefferson/Emma vibes, no they aren’t your imagination, because I think frankly they’d be an interesting pairing-however they are mostly just going to stay vibes in this story. 
> 
> And for anyone who’s now asking, but what about August? Yeah…he’s not going to make it in, mostly because he’s such a character without any purpose. Yes, I could do the Rumpel/August scene, but the show already did that and I can’t think of anything to improve there, and I don’t want to just parrot canon. And frankly, I just don’t see the chemistry between him and Emma (which basically disappeared out of canon as well) and in my story Emma already believes, so for me, August won’t be included.
> 
> Also, finally, for anyone who’s a Hatter fan and hasn’t seen it already, check out ScyFy’s miniseries Alice; it’s a three hour, two part miniseries where Alice is a judo sensei, Kathy Bates is the Red Queen who runs an evil casino and Hatter is awesome, and gorgeous. Next up: Regina and Isobel face off, and Isobel comes to an important realization-but not the one you’re thinking of! Still Isobel, folks-no Belle yet! Because I’m evil. Also, we’ve reached the halfway place in this story right now; 7 out of 14 chapters, which is pretty exciting for me at least! That said, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	8. Father Figure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nope. We still doing this? Really?

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 _“I will be your father figure/Put your tiny hand in mine/I will be your preacher teacher/Anything you have in mind/I will be the one who loves you/Till the end of time.”_ -George Michael, _Father Figure_

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The thing is, Isobel isn’t jealous when Gold runs off to do something with Emma.

No, really, she isn’t.

Alright, so it’s not much of a personal victory because she probably would have been, if it wasn’t for Mary Margaret’s frantic arrival, pounding on the door about a week after Isobel’s visit with Henry and Emma, startling both Isobel and Gold in the library.

At the sound, Gold volunteers to get the door-something Isobel appreciates, because she’s been plagued with back pain all throughout the day, and she’s quite content to just sit her with her book, thank you very much.  So she continues to read as Gold interacts with whoever it is at the door-the library isn’t close enough for her to hear anything, and at this point her back pain is stronger than her curiosity-so Isobel stays seated, content to wait for Gold’s return to see what is going on.

She doesn’t have long to wait, however, as after only a few pages of the _Count of Monte Cristo_ Gold returns to the library, and although his face is clear, Isobel notices the signs of worry in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.  Spurred on by those, Isobel lays her book down in her laps and asks, voice curious and concerned, “Who was at the door?”

“Mary Margaret,” he answers, slightly distracted, before he focuses a little more on her and says, voice just toeing the line between casual and too casual, “My dear, it seems that Emma has gotten herself into a little trouble, and needs some assistance.” And then he raises his hands in a reassuring gesture that seems just this side of false to Isobel before he says, quickly, “Nothing to worry yourself over-you just keep reading, and I’ll be back soon to make diner.”

“Are you sure?” Isobel asks, entirely positive that he is hiding something from her and wanting to help in any way she can-Emma is her friend after all. “What about Mary Margaret-is she still here?”

“I sent her home to wait-she was…quite emotional, and stress is bad for the baby,” he answers, a strange look in his eyes, but then in the next second it’s gone as he continues, “But fret not, it’s just a minor snag-you and the little one rest, and I’ll be back before you know it. And if you need me, you know how to get a hold of me,” he says, patting the pocket that Isobel knows is where keeps his cellphone-such a disingenuous thing with his character-but his number was the first he made her memorize when he gave her a phone of her own, calling it a necessary evil, referring to, Isobel imagines, situations just like this one.

“Alright,” Isobel finally acquiesces, accepting that he isn’t going to give her any more detail than that, and deciding to trust him that everything will be alright, because with all that he has done for her, he has surely earned her trust, “I’ll see you soon.”

He sends her one final soft look in farewell, and then he’s out the door, rushing off to help Emma and leaving Isobel behind.

But she isn’t jealous.

Much.

_Damn it._

But Isobel forces herself to supress that little kernel, because frankly not only ridiculous but also none of her business, and truly inappropriate if Emma needs help-and she’s trying not to imagine the kind of trouble that she would need to ask Gold for help, because Emma and Gold may be strange allies, but they're hardly friends, so this must be serious enough. But, she does trust Gold, and if he thinks that he can help Emma, than she believes him, and so with that in mind, Isobel gives her aching back another rub and picks her book back up, resolving to do what he said and wait for him.

But then, after she’s gotten through another chapter, there is a knock at the door.

Isobel doesn’t really answer the door much, even when she wasn’t _this_ pregnant-they rarely get many visitors, beyond Emma and occasionally Henry, and Gold seems to prefer to get the door-a throwback to a time when men were chivalrous that Isobel frankly finds adorable.

But, given the events of the day, it could be important, and so Isobel sets her book down and makes her way slowly up the hallway, expecting Gold, or Emma, or perhaps even Mary Margaret when she finally opens the door.

She wasn’t expecting Regina.

Her first, instinctual reaction is to slam the door in Regina’s face and find a dark corner of the house to hide in, and she even makes to do it, but Regina, with a cold, knowing look on her face sticks her foot in the door jam, keeping the door from closing.

“Hello, Isobel, I was hoping to find you alone-so we can have a little chat, without any…outside influence,” Regina purrs from blood red lips, a cat that’s eaten the canary look on her face.

“I don’t have anything to talk about with you,” Isobel insists, keeping the door covering most of her as a shield, as she fishes out her cellphone from her pocket and sends Gold a text in secret; nothing more than “Regina,” but she hopes it will be enough.

“Oh sweetheart, of course you do,” Regina says, terribly _, falsely_ kind, prying the door open further just seconds after Isobel drops her phone back into her pocket so that Regina won’t see; something that must work because she continues without any indication that she noticed, “There’s still the little matter of the father of your child, and your living arrangement, of course.”

“My living arrangement is just fine, thank you,” Isobel says, her voice wavering only slightly as she tries to be brave when she’d rather just fall to tears and avoid this woman-this source of all her nightmares, “And the father of my child is none of your business.”

“I’m only trying to do what’s in your best interest,” Regina says, falsely wounded, and her voice becomes sly as she continues, “I mean, do you really expect to raise a child with Mr. Gold? The man who almost beat your own father to death? He isn’t exactly the best role model for a child, after all.”

And then she smiles, a falsely kind thing as her eyes are all that of a shark, scenting blood in the water as she finishes, “And a child that isn’t even his-that’s hardly fair for him, is it? No man wants to take care of another man’s child.”

“Mr. Gold and I are none of your business,” Isobel says, trying to stay firm and ignore the lingering doubt that Regina’s words create about Gold not wanting to care for her child-a fear harder to extinguish than most. She distracts herself by focusing on her anger as she fires back, “And if you had my best interest at heart, you wouldn’t have kept me locked up in a cell.”

“Honey, you were sick…you just can’t remember,” Regina says, entirely undeterred, her eyes drowning in false empathy as her voice takes on a slight sense of self-righteousness, “ You needed treatment, or you could have hurt yourself…or even someone else. I was just trying to do what was best for everyone.”

“Your ‘help’ leaves a lot to be desired,” Isobel says, not buying it for a second, because no matter how sick she might have been, no one deserved what she got, voice strong as she finishes, “I’m much better with Gold than I ever was in your ‘care.’”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Regina says, a dangerous glint in her eyes, that saccharine, false kindness in her voice again as she drawls, eyes all false sympathy, “You don’t even see what’s happened, do you?”

And although Isobel knows she shouldn’t take the bait, she finds that she can’t help herself as she plays right into Regina’s trap, asking, “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve developed feelings for him,” Regina answers, and then her gaze becomes almost gleeful as she moves in a strikes, voice a mockery of empathy and caring, “Stockholm Syndrome, so sad, I should have known.”

“It isn’t Stockholm Syndrome.” Isobel says hotly, and then a second too late realizes her mistake as a victorious look sweeps across Regina’s face at her unintended admission, and then she leans in and goes for the kill, her voice too sweet, “Oh sweetheart, he’s never going to love you know-his heart belongs to someone else.” And now, her voice becomes cruel, the tone that Isobel recognizes from her time in the cell, “And even if it didn’t, he wouldn’t give it to a silly little girl who can’t remember who the father of her child is.  It would just be better for you if you gave up-less chance of a broken heart.”

“Stop it-just stop it!” Isobel cries, wanting to cover her ears with her hands like a child, just to block out Regina’s cruel words, made more horrible by their hints of truth, demanding instead, “What happened to you, to make you this way? What did I ever do to you, to make you hate me so?”

At that, her face twists, and finally the monster hiding beneath the woman is visible, but before Regina can answer the sound of a car can be heard, and Isobel and Regina both turn to see a cab pulling up, and Emma and Gold jump out of it, both making their way quickly over to the door.

“Mr. Gold and Sherriff Swan, how delightful,” Regina says, and although her eyes are angry, her voice and her face betray nothing, all casual interest and compassion as she announces, “Isobel and I were just having a lovely chat-surely that isn’t against the law, is it?”

Isobel only has a second to be grateful to see that Emma is ok before he attention is absorbed by Gold, who inserts himself between herself and Regina and says, his voice low and dangerous, “I imagine Isobel would disagree to the nature of your visit, dearie.”

“Potato, po-tat-o,” Regina says, waving away Gold’s accusation with a carefree gesture of her hand, before a dangerous glint enters her eyes and she purrs to Gold, “I’m glad you’re here though, because you can offer a…unique perspective on our little dilemma.”

And then she smiles, and it is a terrible, cold thing as she goes on, satisfaction soaking her voice, “You’re our resident expert on deals involving children, after all. Surely, you can see how it would be better, for the child of course, that it grew up in a loving home with two parents, and not with a mentally troubled girl who can’t even remember who got her pregnant.”

Gold however doesn’t budge and inch, the only sign that Regina’s words have bothered him found in his tightening grip on his cane, as he announces, voice the picture of casual interest, “Oh, you haven’t heard dearie. Unlike you to behind in the news.”

“Heard what?!” Regina finally demands, clearly unhappy to in being denied the response she was expecting, and Gold eats up her anger, pausing for dramatic effect before he continues, voice falsely solicitous, like he and Regina are old friends, but his eyes betray him, “I’m afraid you’ve been operating on old information, dearie. Isobel does remember who the father is.”

“Does she now?” Regina drawls, skeptically, and even as Isobel tries to keep her face blank, she can’t help but wonder where’s he’s going with this, because frankly that’s news to her as well.

However it readily becomes apparent where he’s going with this as he smirks, once, before he answers, voice leaving no room for doubt, “Yes. I’m the father.” And then, even as Isobel reals at the hugeness of the gesture he’s just made, because he’s just claimed a child that isn’t even his to the mayor, his voice becomes entirely mocking as he finishes, “I’m sure you’ll offer your congratulations.”

Regina, naturally does no such thing, her face twisting again, before she says, voice biting, “Oh, really-how convenient. And would Isobel say the same thing, if I were to ask her?”

“She’s her own woman, dearie,” Gold says, the picture of casual indifference, but Isobel can see his tenseness in the white knuckled grip he has on his cane as he continues, “Feel free to ask her.”

Regina, naturally does just that, turning the full force of her sharp glare to Isobel before she asks, “So Isobel, is he right? Is Mr. Gold father of your child?” And her voice is saccharine, entirely expecting to be met with a denial; a denial that, by all rights, _should_ be coming.

But it’s then that Isobel has an epiphany, that blows the door off and makes everything as clear as crystal.

It doesn’t matter who the father of her child is.

It doesn’t matter who actually donated the genetic material to actually create her child, because decisions are made by those who show up, and the mysterious ‘someone’ is a day late and a dollar short. 

It only matters who she _wants_ to be the father of her child.

And she wants Gold.

And right now, it seems that he’s at least willing to try out the role for a while, and perhaps she can even talk him into to taking the job in a more permanent basis. And it’s all in her grasp, if only Isobel is brave enough to take it.

Isobel does the brave thing, and reaches for what she wants.

“Yes, actually I would,” she says, voice strong, and she ignores the look of surprise on Regina’s face in favor for the look of surprise in Gold’s eyes as she moves into his grasp, a clear gesture of solidarity as she announces, “Mr. Gold is the father of my daughter-our daughter.”

An then, after on last squeeze of his hand she leaves his embrace and walks towards Regina, saying, “Now, as much as I’ve truly enjoyed this little ‘talk,’ because it’s been _so_ long since we had one, I think it’s time for you to go.”

And then she gets as close to Regina’s face as her stomach will allow, and whispers, channeling every ounce of Gold she can into her tone and her posture, “You’ve over stayed your welcome, _dearie_ ,” and Regina’s look of shock is one of the best things that Isobel has ever seen.

And then her water breaks.

All over Regina’s expensive designer shoes.

And Isobel realizes she was wrong; Regina’s squeal of indignation and disgust is undoubtedly the best thing.

At that, Regina seems to give up, at least for the moment, as she sends them all a fiery glare before she storms off in silence, jumping into her car and driving away, her tires screeching on the pavement as she does.

However Isobel hardly has a second to soak in the incredible sense of _victory_ that comes over her-she stood up to her tormentor and _won_ -as he attention is quickly grabbed by her more immediate situation.

“So, you’re in labor,” Emma says, spelling it out, her voice full of good humor as she states the obvious to the room. 

“I guess so,” Isobel says, voice colored with something close to wonder, because, well, this is it, isn’t it? This is the beginning of the most important thing she is ever going to do in her life.

“I thought we had a few more weeks,” Gold says, that terribly cute male panic starting to creep back into his voice, and just a hint of anger, which Isobel is pretty sure is directed at the doctors and perhaps the universe at large for not predicting this and informing him ahead of time.

Emma clearly picks up his tone as well, as she rolls her eyes in commiseration with Isobel-a ‘ _men_ ’ gesture-before she fires back at Gold, her tone sarcastic but kind, “It’s a baby Gold, not FedEx. They pretty much come when they want to, not when they’re supposed to.”

Gold completely ignores Emma’s quip in favor of making his way over to Isobel, asking, voice a mixture of concern and the beginning of panic, “Are you alright? In any pain? Do you want to sit down?”

“I’m fine-I’m just…ready,” Isobel states, and she is. She’s ready to meet this little person, and ready to be a mother. But she has to ask, because this is a big step that will change everything she says to Gold, voice carefully neutral, “How about you? Are you ready for this?”

“Always,” he says, face pale but tone resolute, and his eyes are soft as he offers her his hand.

And at that Isobel smiles, because now she is sure, and thinks, ‘Together. Together we can do anything.’

She takes his hand.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Baby time! *Does Hammer Time Theme in Head* Ok, silliness over! See, there is a method to my madness, 'cause Isobel is getting her groove back and being brave, and is planning something in the next chapter (that was my absolute favorite thing to write in this whole thing FYI, which is why I'm being so vague.) So, for anyone who reads a lot of preg-fic went-wait, isn't she supposed to have agonizing contractions before her water breaks-not really. The back pain Isobel felt is called back labor-it's often mistaken for simple back pain, and so women can actually be in labor for hours without knowing it, which is what happened with Isobel, and some women's water breaks long before contractions actually start. That said, next up; baby! Which is kind of like a nice cliffie, if there is such a thing. So, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	9. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mine! Nope, just kidding.

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 _"Birth is not only about making babies. It's about making mothers-strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and believe in their inner strength"_ -Barbara Katz Rothman

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So, labor.

The miraculous process of bringing a new life into the world.

In the most stressful, painful way possible.

Belle, his precious, brave little Belle, is calm and serene.

Gold is pretty sure he’s about a second away from hyperventilating and fainting.

And they aren’t even at the bloody hospital yet.

Emma is absolutely laughing at him.

However anything he might have fired back at Emma is immediately forgotten as Belle makes a noise of pain and all of his attention is taken up by her as he asks, voice not quite as steady as he’d prefer, “Contraction?”

“Yes,” Belle says after a deep breath, and then she looks down at her watch as she continues, “About 15 minutes apart I think.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” He asks, now desperately wishing that he’d taken a better look at that _What to Expect When You Were Expecting_ book. They were supposed to have more time, damn it.

It’s Emma who answers, taking pity on him from the front seat, where she is driving as she meets both of their eyes in the rear view mirror and says, voice calm, “It means we still have plenty of time.”

Time is good.

Thankfully, by then they’ve finally reached the hospital, and so Emma pulls up into the emergency drive through, and they all pile out of the car, and slowly-because he’s a man with a limp escorting a woman having a baby-make their way to the registration desk.  The exchange of information is thankfully quick, and after a few minutes they’re checked in, and then met by Whale, who leads them to a maternity room.

However when they get to the mouth of the room, Whale hesitates, and then, says, and Gold can almost see the puppet strings that lead back to Regina, “Traditionally only the father comes in,” and it’s designed to hurt.

However before Gold has the opportunity to apply his cane to a certain part of Whale’s anatomy Belle, his brave, beautiful little Belle makes it unnecessary as she doesn’t miss a beat.  Instead she grabs Whale by the arm, and fairly hisses, eyes daring him to disagree, “He’s coming in, or I’m going out and having this baby in the damned car!”

And then, as sweet as sugar, and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth she smiles as she asks, almost cheerfully, “Got it?”

Rumpelstiltskin wants to kiss her more than he wants his next breath.

But he doesn’t, because this is Isobel and not Belle, and so he buries the urge and settles for the satisfaction of watching Whale fold like a house of cards, and so, without any more fanfare, they are escorted into the delivery room.

Emma follows them in as well, for what seems to be the sole task of glaring suspiciously at Whale and the nurses.

If Gold wasn’t wound so tight, he’d probably find it hilarious.

However from that point on, it becomes a flurry of moment, as Belle is given a gown to change into, and once done that, hooked up to a variety of machines that Gold doesn’t have the faintest idea what they do, but all seem to be beeping importantly. And then, one of the nurses disappears briefly between Belle’s legs and Gold has to take deep breaths and remind himself that this is a medical necessity. 

Thankfully it’s a short process, as after a second the nurse re-emerges and says to Belle, voice professional but kind, “You’re at five centimeters. So you’re doing well, but you’ve still got a way to go. Have you given any thought to whether or not you’d like an epidural?”

“No drugs,” Belle says, a determined look on her face, that wonderful spark of bravery that she used to have at the Dark Castle fully visible-the same one she displayed taking on Regina, something he is so proud of her for-and the nurse nods in affirmation.

Gold wonders if it would be inappropriate to ask for some for him.

Unfortunately he’s pretty sure the answer is yes, so instead he bites his lip and gets Belle another cup of ice chips.

And then, they wait.

And wait.

And _wait_.

And after the seventh hour of just _waiting_ ; of ice chips and Belle panting, in pain, Rumpelstiltskin starts to rethink purgatory, because he was wrong; _now_ he is in it.

It’s at that point that another nurse comes in, and after she once again checks to see how dilated Belle is, she announces, an encouraging look on her face, “You’re still only at eight centimeters; you’ve made some progress but not quite enough.  Maybe you want to try talking a turn around the hospital.”

“They want me to take a _walk_?” Belle says to him in response, voice somewhere between bemused and incredulous, and even though her face and hair are blanketed with sweat and her eyes are tired, she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

 _“Apparently,”_ Gold says, about one step away from asking every one of these people for proof of their credentials, curse created or otherwise, because really, where did they learn this voodoo?

However he’s derailed by Emma, who, with a laughing twinkle in her eyes says, “It really does help,” voice full of good humor. And although Gold thinks this is a terrible idea on principle, Emma is the only one out of all of them that has actually given birth before, and so with one final mistrusting look, he sets to the process of helping Belle get out of bed, monitors and all.

And so they go for a walk, of all things, Emma supporting one side of Belle and he the other, and it’s a slow, agonizing process, because every couple of minutes Belle has to stop and pant her way through a contraction, and a part of Gold bleeds every time at her pain.

Rumpelstiltskin missed Bae’s birth while he was off at the war, being ogre bait, and he’s always regretted it.

He’s quickly learning that the two experiences have more in common than he thought.

Though in some ways, war doesn’t even compare, because if they say that war is hell, then childbirth is a very special hell indeed.

However he pushes that thought away, as by this time they’ve made it back to the room and Belle’s contractions are coming fast and hard, with little to no time between them, and so they settle Belle back into bed, and then call for Whale.  Whale wastes no time in arriving, and after checking a few of the machines and conferring with one of the nurses, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and sets to examining Belle.

“Good news,” Whale says after a long moment, poking his head up from an area of Belle that Gold previously considered for his eyes only-and it was one thing with the nurses, but if Whale doesn’t get away soon, then things are going to get ugly very quickly. Though Gold finds that he must give credit where credit is due, as for all that Whale is a puppet of the Queen, he’s also a thoroughly professional doctor, and so, even without looking at the dark look on Gold’s face, Whale moves away and continues on professionally, “You’re at ten centimeters, which means it’s time to push.”

This, it seems, turns out to be some kind of signal, as from the second Whale stops speaking, every medical personal in the room erupts into motion, as monitors are readjusted and Belle’s feet are moved into the stirrups, and the nurses and Whale suit up.

“Do you want to be up here, for support?” One of the nurses, a no nonsense sort of figure asks as she marches by to do something, and Gold can only nod, as he hurriedly makes his way up to a position on the side of Belle’s head because, he’s here for this, he really is, but well.

He certainly doesn’t want to be down _there_.

Emma, from her position at the side of the room, smirks at him.

He ignores her.

Instead, he gives his full attention to Belle, who for all her resoluteness, looks a little bit lost, and so, after he’s met her eyes, he does the only thing he can, that’s seemed to work so far.

He offers her his hand.

Belle’s eyes soften at the gesture, but she doesn’t take it right away, saying instead, her voice earnest and slightly apologetic, “It’s entirely possible I’m going to hurt you, squeezing your hand.”

“My dear, I’m willing to let you break it, if it helps,” he says, meaning every word, because even if she can’t remember, he did do this to her and he owes her this and so much more, and the brilliant smile she gives him in return makes any hurt negligible.

She takes his hand.

“Ok,” Whale says, drawing their attention away from each other, his voice entirely professional, “Now with each contraction I want you to bear down and give me a big push until the count of ten. Can you do that?”

Belle nods determinately in response, and then when the next contraction comes she does just that, Emma and Whale both counting with her, as she squeezes his hand, hard enough that’s it’s like a vice.

It absolutely does hurt, by the way.

It’s entirely worth it.

“You’re doing marvelous,” Gold says, after a few pushes, when they pause to take a breather, brushing her brow with a cloth in his free hand, the first thing he’s said since she started pushing. He’s refrained from the stereotypical, ‘push’ because frankly she’s pushing a watermelon out of a hole designed for a kiwi, and he’s perfectly satisfied with taking things slow.

That and he’s pretty sure she’d hit him.

The twinkle in Emma’s eyes tells him she’s still laughing at him.

Gold considers it a sign of personal growth that it doesn't even bother him.

Or maybe that’s just the terror taking. Either or.

However at that point Whale asks Belle to push again, and she does, and Whale says, voice encouraging, “The head is crowning. Another big push, alright?”

At that Belle nods, eyes determined, and does just that, bearing down hard, squeezing Gold’s hand so hard he fears something breaks, but that is entirely forgotten as Whale says, “Here’s the head. One more big push for the shoulders.”

And, after a deep breath, Belle does, and then the baby slips out, and there is silence.

The longest, most weighted, bloody terrible silence of his life.

And then, like a breath of air back into the room, a baby’s cry.

His _daughter’s_ cry.

Rumpelstiltskin can think of no more beautiful sound.

“It’s a girl,” one of the nurses says, placing the squalling little creature on Belle’s chest so they can see her, and although she’s still covered in  blood, she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

“Look at what you did,” Gold says to Belle, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes, voice so awestruck and _proud_ as he stares at his daughter in Belle’s arms, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

“Hello,” Belle says, her voice choked with tears, as she brushes a gentle, trembling finger down their daughter’s face,  “I’m your mama.”

“Do you want to cut the cord?” One of the nurses asks him, a soft look on her face, drawing his attention reluctantly away from the beautiful picture that is Belle and the baby.  He desperately wants to say yes to the question, but instead he sends a look of permission towards Belle, because this is something that the father normally does, and for all that he _is_ the father, Belle still doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

Belle, however, brushes away any such worries as she nods encouragingly, her eyes soft, and so Gold takes the offered scissors and does just that with hands that tremble, the enormity of the gesture not escaping him.  Once he’s finished, the nurse takes the scissors back and then turns to Belle and says, “We’ve got to clean her,” voice kind and reassuring, and she waits patiently for Belle to relinquish her grip on the baby.  Belle finally does, clearly reluctant, and her eyes are fearful as the follow the nurse, her hands clutching helplessly at the empty air, obviously uncomfortable with being separated from her daughter. 

At Belle’s look Emma says to both of them, voice kind, “I’ve got it,” an understanding look in her eyes as she follows the nurse, keeping a watchful eye on everything she does.  Trusting that Emma won’t let anything happen to his daughter, Gold turns his attention back to Belle, who is dealing with the afterbirth which, thankfully, doesn’t take much, and so it’s only a few minutes before a nurse returns with their daughter, now all clean and bundled in a blanket, a little pink hat on her head.  She places her back into Belle’s arms and Belle cuddles her to her, clearly glad to have her back, and Gold stays at her side and drinks in the sight of Belle holding their-even if she still doesn’t know it-daughter.

Emma, clearly sensing when she isn’t wanted-and she’s been great, really, but this moment is just for them-smiles once at the picture they must make before she announces, a soft twinkle in her eye, “I’m going to go get a soda…and glare at Whale some more. You two talk.” And then her looks becomes more predatory as she catches a glimpse of Whale down the hallway, and marches out of the room to do just that, leaving he and Belle alone with their daughter.

And then, there is little to do but look at his daughter, and _marvel_.

Rumpelstiltskin traded in children, not to be cruel, but because he could think of nothing more precious in the world than a child, and people needed to understand the true cost of magic before they agreed to a deal.

Consequently, he’s seen a lot of children in his time, and every last one of them was special.

None of them were as perfect as this.

She’s all peaches and cream skin, a thatch of chestnut, baby soft hair, little rosebud mouth and Belle’s blue eyes, and though he knows those might change as she gets older, he hopes not. He fancies that perhaps she has the beginnings of his nose, but she’s far too young to say with any certainty, and frankly she’s beautiful all the same.

 “What are you going to call her?” He asks her breaking the awestruck silence that has fallen as they both stare at her, voice soft but truly curious as for all the conversations they had, a name never came up.

“Rose,” Belle says softly after a moment, meeting his eyes before staring back down at the precious little miracle in her arms, “Her name is Rose.”

And Gold can’t help but smile, just a little bit, because not only is it the perfect name, but because it gives him hope that somewhere, his Belle is still in there, and that she remembers.  But this isn’t the moment for that, and so instead he says softly to Isobel, who seems to be waiting for his approval, “Rose French-Beautiful.”

At that she smiles, but then she says, quite clearly, “No.”

“No, it’s not beautiful?” He asks, mostly bemused, but a strangely serious look comes over Belle’s face as she meets his eyes and says, “I don’t remember how I got pregnant; you know that.”

And doesn’t he just though? It’s only the root of all of his problems.

However he settles simply for nodding, because there’s no way to explain _that_ to her, and she seems to be on the verge of something important.  This becomes more apparent as, at his nod she continues, voice strong and brave, “But I realized, when we were talking with Regina, that it doesn’t matter; what matters is who I want to be her father.”

“Alright…” He says, heart pounding, barely willing to consider where she is going with his, because for all that he claimed to be the father with Regina, Belle still doesn’t know that it is true, and the consequences of being wrong would break his heart.

However he’s not left waiting long, as instead of verbally answering, Belle pushes the birth certificate towards him, a look of apprehension and hope on her face.

And so, he reads it, and then his heart really almost does stop, as he asks, after a long moment, voice hoarse and awestruck, “Rose Gold?”

“So how about it,” she says in response, that lovely hopeful look in her eyes, holding out Rose’s little fist towards him, “do you want to be her father?”

He kisses her then, because he can no more stop the tide than he can resist the urge to kiss her.

And it’s a lovely kiss-their first for her and their second for him-deep and erotic, tongues dancing together and yet somehow also unbearably sweet, and Gold wishes that it would never end.

It does of course, because eventually they have to breathe, and as they finally break apart Isobel meets his eyes, her own beautifully dazed, and asks, “So is that a yes then?” Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of red, and although her voice is serious, her eyes twinkle with soft humor, “Because it’s forever, you know.”

And Rumpelstiltskin smiles, brushes a finger down _his_ daughter’s check, and knows happiness.

“Forever.”

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Baby!!! *Flail* So yeah, I know calling her Rose is a bit overdone, but it really is the only name it was ever going to be. And yes, although I toyed with the idea of having her remember and ending it here, I ultimately decided to have Belle not remember after the kiss for two reasons. One, ‘cause even if it was true loves kiss-and even I’m not sure if it was yet-it didn’t work on David and Mary Margaret, and their love basically made the curse. And two, because I really, really wanted to write that little scene at the end-seriously, I wrote it almost before the first chapter was done, because I think-with the whole Regina thing, we forget that parents that choose to be parents are just as amazing as bio parents. Belle will eventually remember, I promise, but not just yet, which means that the next few chapters are going to be interactions with Gold as the father (because Isobel has named him as such, even if she doesn’t know he really is), but with Isobel and not Belle, which allows for some fun relationship adjustment. Also, she also didn’t realize he was the father by looking at Rose because-although it’s a sweet plot device, it’s not all that likely in the real world-at least from my experience with newborn infants- as they look more like fish than they do their parents, at least for a little while (babies ‘born’ on tv shows are always 3 or 4 month olds, not infants). I love babies and I think they’re adorable-I’m in med school to be an OB/GYN, but I’ve yet to run across a newborn that I could identify its parents by, just by looking at him/her. That said, fear not, because she will remember eventually, and because Rose Gold will definitely grow into some parental features, I promise!
> 
> Also, I feel that I should mention that Gold’s fear in this chapter wasn’t related to him not wanting to be a father, just to him being a man and afraid of labor. My father, who is six feet tall, massive, Scottish and afraid of nothing, was a nervous wreck when my mother had my sister, and asked, something that absolutely cracked me up (I was ten, and they let me watch the whole birth-great form of birth control by the way because my teen years were entirely pregnancy free) “What hippie came up with the idea of the father being in the room?! I love my wife, but I don’t want to see that!” Consequently, I now believe that all men are afraid of childbirth. 
> 
> Additionally, if any of you were reading this chapter and felt the little scene at the end (my fav!) seemed familiar, there is a reason for that. It’s loosely inspired by the last episode of Aaron Sorkin’s brilliant-and tragically canceled after one season-Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, where Amanda Peet’s character asks Bradley Whitford’s character (her fiancé in the show) if he wants to be her baby’s father (as he is not actually the bio dad). If you haven’t seen it, check it out, because it is possibly the cutest scene in the history of tv, and my favorite tv moment of all time. That said, as always, enjoy and review and constructive criticism are welcome.


	10. Baby, You're a Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. The fucking Blue Fairy isn’t answering my calls.

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 _“Babies are always more trouble than you thought - and more wonderful.”_ -Charles Osgood

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For all that she knew, academically, that after pregnancy came a child, nothing could have prepared her for the actual reality of being Rose’s mother.

Isobel is enjoying every second of it.

Every blink of Rose’s eyes, every grip of her fingers around Isobel’s own, to every sleepy snuffle she makes is a precious gift.

That is, not to say, that aren’t seconds she enjoys more than others though.

Because Rose is a miracle, no doubt about it, but she is also a miracle that wakes every two hours in the night, like clockwork, needing to be fed.

And Isobel is glad to get up, she really is, because there is nothing in this world more beautiful and wondrous than watching her daughter’s little rosebud mouth latch onto her nipple-the precious intimacy of that moment something indescribable by modern language.

However after a month of sleep deprivation, the four am feeding has become just a tiny bit less magical though.

This is where Gold really is-pardon the pun-golden.

She’s not sure what it is-perhaps the man is a vampire and doesn’t need sleep-but at this point she really doesn’t even care, because she’s just so grateful for the help.

Because, frankly, for all that he’d agreed to be Rose’s father at the hospital, Isobel still hadn’t been sure how much of a role he had intended to take, because no matter what he said, intent is meaningless without action.

Gold, however, is clearly a man for whom his word is his bond.

Because he’s invaluable; he changes diapers, helped her through that first, terrifying bath-really, who designed those tubs anyways-rocked Rose through a period of colic, and, more often than naught when she wakes up in the night, can be found in Rose’s room, rocking her and talking to her in that delightful brogue of his.

Sometimes, Isobel wants to freeze those moments, and just live in them forever.

He’s Rose’s father.

But this is where her certainty ends.

Because for all that he’d kissed her at the hospital-and what a kiss it had been-he hasn’t made any more advances towards her since then.  He’s unflappably gentle towards her-truly kind, all hesitant smiles and soft looks-and an absolute gem with Rose, but no more.  And Isobel, frankly, knows that she should be content with what she has, because it’s so much more than she ever dreamed it would be in that damned cell, but well…

Isobel wants _more_.

She blames this, frankly, on that spark of bravery that she’d found when she took on Regina and won, because the girl that she had been before-the scared little girl fresh from the cage-wouldn’t have dared to dream for anything.  But the woman she is now-the mother who took on her dragon and _won_ -isn’t satisfied with this lovely little half-life that they are living; she, having tasted Gold’s kiss, wants more.

Wants _everything_.

The problem is, she isn’t sure how to go about getting it.

Though she thinks the six week post-natal appointment she just had is a step in the right direction.

She went alone with Rose-a big step, for both she and Gold-but Isobel really needed to do this one by herself. She’s so grateful for everything that he does for her, but she doesn’t want to be entirely dependent on him for the rest of her life. She’s a mother now, and a brave woman, and she wants to be able to prove to him and herself that she can stand on her own two feet and face the scary things on her own, even though she knows she doesn’t _have_ to.

Additionally, she might have died of mortification if Gold had been there when the nurse had given her a saucy wink and certified her as fit to resume having sex.

Though in retrospect, it might have solved her dilemma.

  1. So it’s with a special glow that she nurses and changes Rose and puts her down for a nap, placing her into her adorable little crib, tucking her into the little blanket Gold bought and placing the baby Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal beside her to watch over her.   



And then she can’t help but stop and look; look at her _daughter_ , and her heart just _swells_ , because she didn’t even think it was possible to love someone as much as she loves Rose.

However she’s disturbed from her observation of watching her daughter breathe by the sound of the door opening and closing quietly, and so, knowing that the sounds indicates that Gold has come home early from the shop-likely worried about her, and isn’t that just terribly sweet-she grabs the baby monitor and, as silently as she can, creeps downstairs to meet him.

He’s in the kitchen when she finds him, and he looks up and smiles, that heart-fluttering softness to his eyes when he sees her, before he asks, voice hushed so as not to wake Rose, “How did the check-up go-everything alright?” And although concern is carefully modulated in his tone, Isobel can almost see him tamping down the panic that wants to escape him at the thought of her being alone in the hospital.   

To ease that look, because something deep in her hurts when he hurts, she says quickly, voice quiet but reassuring, “Everything’s perfect-I got a clean bill of health.”

“That’s excellent dear,” he says in return, relief clear in his voice that turns to pride as he reads between the lines and hears what she didn’t say, in addition to what she did-that she was ok at the hospital; the site of her nightmares-by herself.

At that-at his pride at her accomplishment, as mundane as it is-Isobel gathers her courage and continues, voice trying for casual, “And the nurses even said I could resume all my pre-birth…activities safety now.”

“That’s good,” he says simply, entirely not getting the point, and Isobel feels the brief, strong urge to repeatedly bang her head against the nearest wall.

Isobel is aware that, as a mature adult, there are a lot of ways that she can deal with this.  She can simply lay out the facts, and ask him why he hasn’t made a move.  She could kiss him, and try and go from there. But there is still that hint of doubt, that erodes at her bravery-that says that he hasn’t made a move because he doesn’t want her, and he’s just trying to be kind about it, and it’s that doubt that keeps her frozen.

So, naturally, she chooses the mature option of bursting into tears.

At that, the panic is back in full force as he rushes over to her, though his hands are gentle as they bracket her shoulders as he says, voice nearly frantic, “Isobel, sweet, what is it? Please, sweet, I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s broken.”

“You don’t want me!” She manages to wail, through her sobs, and her courage fails her as she can’t meet his eyes, knowing that her little display is hardly helping to create the image of her as mature adult he’d want to date.

“ _What?_ ” He says, drawing back a bit, and at that Isobel finally manages to meet his gaze, to find that he’s looking at her like she’s just said that there’s an alien on the roof, or something equally ridiculous before he continues, voice entirely bewildered but still modulated as not to wake Rose, “What on earth would give you an idea as _moronic_ as that?”

“You haven’t kissed me since the hospital!” She says, her tears beginning to fade as the look of sheer puzzlement on his face registers-a look that does wonders to tamping down that self-destructive doubt.

And then the doubt is dealt a death blow as he says, “You just had a _baby!_ ” And his voice is the definition of incredulous, staring at her like he thinks she’s being deliberately obtuse and missing the obvious dancing pink elephant in the room.

And so, although Isobel is pretty sure she finally gets where their wires were crossed, she can’t help but asking, just for the certainty of verbal confirmation, “So…you do want me?”

“My dear,” he says, voice wonderfully soft, and the look he gives her warms her very soul, “if there are things you can be certain of in our ever changing world, they are these; the Earth will always revolve around the sun, water will always be wet, and I will _always_ want you.”

“The doctor says I’m ready,” she says in return, stomach fluttering, and it’s not quite an answer, but really, what do you _say_ to something like that?

At that, he smiles, the gesture a bit rueful, as he says, voice soft but entirely serious, “Yes, but there is a world of difference between being ready and being _ready_ , sweetheart. And personally, I don’t think either of us is _ready_ yet.”

“You’re not supposed to be this understanding,” she complains, only half-heartedly, because he’s right, and they both know it but really, he’s the man.  Isn’t he supposed to be insensitive and demanding about this?

His understanding only makes her want to jump him.

It’s a vicious cycle.

“You’re important, dear,” he says, the soft glint of humor in eyes indicating that he’s aware of her predicament, before his voice becomes painfully sincere, “You and Rose are the second chance I never thought I’d get, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.  Especially jumping the gun and indulging in an urge to soon.”

“Well,” she says finally, over the warm, cresting wave that is happiness in her heart, “if the mood ever hits you, please feel free to indulge that urge a little bit, alright?”

He smiles at that, and then, with a soft look of intent, draws her into him, his mouth descending on hers, somehow both gentle and deep, and Isobel is helpless to do anything but open her mouth and _respond_ , grasping his shoulders in order to keep herself _standing_ as her legs suddenly turn to jelly.

“Alright,” he says, when he finally draws back, and Isobel is proud that she manages to contain her whimper at the loss of his lips on hers, though twinkle in his eye as he rubs his thumb gently on the curve of her chin suggests she might not have done as good a job as she thought.

And of course, it’s at that point that Rose lets out a cry through the monitor, and the spell that seems to have fallen around them breaks, and so, although he lets go of her shoulders and takes a few steps back, the good humored twinkle remains in his eyes as he says, voice soft, “You go tend to the babe, and I’ll start dinner.”

Isobel manages a dazed nod in his direction, before she goes up stairs and does just that, unable to stop the beaming smile on her face, even as she rocks Rose, shushing her tears.  From that point on the evening progresses as most of them do; they eat dinner together, Rose a warm presence in her basket beside the table, and then they read in the library where they take turns rocking Rose in her basket near the fire-but not too close, of course.  The only difference is when they part ways to go to bed, and he gives her a good night kiss, barely more than the brushing of lips, but it makes her heart sing all the same.

The taste of him still on her lips, Isobel falls asleep with a light heart.

She wakes up, hours later, to silence.

This, in itself is a surprise, because it’s four am, and Rose should be crying, making her presence known.  The fact that she isn’t indicates that something is going on, and so, although she doesn’t need to, because she knows what’s going on, Isobel makes her way quietly to Rose’s room, hit with the sudden desire to watch what she knows is happening.

When she gets there, the door is partially ajar, and so instead of opening it, Isobel peaks in, and then she just _stops_ , and _stares_.

Because there, as she expected, is Gold, cradling a gently crying Rose to him in the rocking chair, rocking back and forth as he murmurs to her, feeding her breast milk from a bottle-and on a related note, the breast pump is a torture device that is finally, _finally_ worth it-and Isobel can just make out what he is saying from her position, hidden by the door.

“There, there Rose. That’s better, isn’t it,” he says softly, as Rose’s cries tamper off in favor of sucking on the nipple of her bottle, and Isobel’s heart _melts_ as he continues, “We mustn’t wake Mummy-she needs her rest after all.  There you are, darling girl, Daddy is here.”

And then, just when she thought her heart couldn’t get any more _full_ , she’s proven wrong as, voice soft, accent thick, he starts to _sing_.

_“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise; Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, And l will sing you a lullaby.”_

And it is then, that she realizes something.

Love, she thinks, is layered.

This is not a fairy-tale-Gold is no Prince Charming and she is no princess, and true love’s kiss will not fix everything-but she thinks that this is love all the same.

Standing in the shadows, watching Gold sing to _their_ daughter, heart near bursting, Isobel knows she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

_“Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry, And l will sing you a lullaby.”_

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So sorry for the delay; I got hit by the head cold from hell, and could barely sit up, much less work through a plot. The cold is still kicking my ass, but at least I can write now, and so, I give you the first sort-of-fight I guess, and the adjustment period of Isobel and Mr. Gold. Still slow and steady, people! This chapter was hard, because I wanted to capture the wonder of a new baby with the reality of a new baby; because I love babies, but they’re hard work; no sleep, and worry, and I didn’t want to over or under romanticize that. Also, the more thing is a nerd nod to the Disney Beauty and the Beast, who’s Belle, if I remember correctly, sang a lovely number about wanting more-and possibly Ariel as well. Disney heroines really like more, apparently! Any fans of the Nostalgia Critic will pick up on that joke, and if you have no idea what that is, google it, because it’s a fun way to waste some time-like quickmeme but crankier and with videos…ok it’s nothing like quickmeme; look it up anyways! Additionally, the lullaby Gold sings is Golden Slumbers, a little ditty by a group you might have heard of called the Beatles-appropriate, no? Finally, it might be another few days before the next update-mostly ‘cause I’m still sick-but I’ll try my best, and as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	11. Papa Won’t You Buy Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Pity too, ‘cause med-school is freaking expensive. And Robert Carlyle is gorgeous. Just saying.

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_“I'm gonna watch you shine/Gonna watch you grow/Gonna paint a sign/So you'll always know/As long as one and one is two/There could never be a father/Who loved his daughter more than I love you.”_

-Father and Daughter, Paul Simon

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Let it be known that Rumpelstiltskin loves being a father.

Loves rocking his daughter, loves feeding her from her bottle, loves watching her just _breathe_ in her little crib, a tiny miracle of pale, baby soft skin and blue eyes.

He didn’t know if he would remember how.

It’s been so many years since he was a father, and although there are definitely similarities between this and his experiences with Bae, there are also vast-worldly even-differences.

Rumpelstiltskin had been a poor spinner-a lame coward and a single father-in a world where being a peasant had been no fairy-tale.  Baths had to be heated by boiling water, and never stayed warm long enough.  Food was scarce, and he had often gone without a meal so that Bae could eat.  And even when he had become the Dark One-when his power had been able to give his precious son the things he had never had-life had still not been comfortable, too fraught with darkness and secrets, and finally, emptiness, when he had made his terrible error in letting his son go.

Mr. Gold is a rich man in world that, although it has no magic, has its own comforts.  Water flows freely from taps, at any temperature that is desired.  Lights turn on at the flick of a switch, and a home can be any temperature that the owner desires-a far cry from the freezing winters and sweltering summers of their poor little cabin.  Food here is plentiful-sold in stores, large and comfortable-and here Gold can feed his entire household and have food left over.  Here, in this strange land, money is his power, and through his agreement with Regina, Gold has enough money to make sure that his daughter wants for nothing.

Here, he thinks perhaps, he is a good father.

He was not in the Enchanted Forrest.

That is not to say he hadn’t tried; he was a better father as a poor spinner than as the Dark One, this he has come to realize over the centuries, but for all his efforts, he knows he had still not been a great one. He had loved Bae with all that he had, but he had had so little, that it had left him with a terrible sense of inadequacy.  What kind of father was unable to provide for his own son, after all?

And it had been this-this _shame_ -that had truly led him to possess the dagger of the Dark One.  Not a lust for power, not truly for riches-he had far too poor for all his life to even truly imagine what that sort of life would be like. No, rather, when he had taken the dagger, he had simply thought that this, perhaps, would be a way to keep his son safe, and well cared for.

And then, he had taken the dagger, and felt the _power._

Darkness will always be seductive-always be tempting-and Rumpelstiltskin had been weak, and _wanting_ and the power of the Dark One had capitalized on that, playing on his desperation until it had twisted his wants into something unrecognizable.  As the Dark One, he can now admit, he had been a poor father-magic had given his son all of the comforts that he had never had before, but it had robbed him of his father and Bae-noble, _wonderful_ Bae-had found the cost of the trade too high, and had wanted to go back to how it had been.

But Rumpelstiltskin, too caught up in the _power_ and too afraid to let go, had not.

And so, through a fault entirely his own, he had lost his precious son.

Not the action a good father.

This is why, he is, perhaps for the first time, truly grateful for the curse.

Grateful to be Mr. Gold.

Because Mr. Gold can care for his daughter without having to make that choice.  He can keep his power-his money-here and kiss the woman he loves without having to lose anything.

Perhaps this makes him a coward still-this pitiful gratefulness for not having to make that sacrifice-but Gold cares little.

Besides, it will not last much longer.

It’s a thought that’s been weighing on his mind more heavily as of late, especially after Rose’s birth.  For thirty years he had been living for tomorrow-for the day when the Savior came to town and broke this thrice damned curse-so that he could discover what happened to his son, or get his power back he is not sure, though a bit of both is most likely true-but regardless, in a town where time had been forgotten, he’d been living for the future.

Now of course, the Savior is here, and he finds himself living for the present, wishing for just a little more time.

There is a bitter irony in this that has not escaped Gold’s notice.  He has found happiness here, in this town without any-in his daughter and Isobel, this tiny family of his-and so naturally, it must change.  This is the nature of the Dark Curse, something Rumpelstiltskin understands better than anyone, even Regina-unbroken, no happiness can exist here for long.

Though his one saving grace is that, although things must change, there is still the possibility-small though it may be-that they can change for the better.  This is still a half-life, and no matter how wonderful it is, Rumpelstiltskin of all people knows that a half-life is no life at all.  He does not know what will happen when the curse breaks, nor does not know how to break it-he does not know if magic will return, or if the curse will fully break-although he doubts it, because this was a curse like no other.

Does not know if he will once again become the Dark One.

He finds himself wondering sometimes, as he considers his precious cup, if Isobel could love the monster he would become.  For despite his love for Isobel-and he does love her, make no mistake-she is still not _Belle_ -not the princess who stood up to the beast in the Dark Castle-not the woman whose heart he broke.  Isobel is brave and strong once again-Belle, without her memories-but if we are the sum of our experiences, then Isobel can never truly be _Belle_ without the memory of that time.  He realizes that it’s likely an academic question; when the curse does break, memories will likely be the first thing to return-they were the first thing lost after all-and so it would likely be _Belle_ not Isobel that would have to deal with the fallout, and Belle, of course, had already loved the beast.  But still, sometimes, he finds himself wondering.

He thinks that she might.

He’s not sure if that thought thrills him or scares him.

But no matter what happens then, he still has now; has Isobel and Rose, and _love_ , and perhaps in the future he will even able to have Belle and Rose, and true love.  Perhaps they will be his strength, and enough to weather whatever comes their way.  And so, although he will do nothing to hamper the breaking of the Dark Curse; although he will help Emma anyway he can, he finds himself in no hurry.

Soon, he thinks, as he places his precious cup-this token of _Belle_ -back into its safe place, but it is not a gesture without hope. 

Soon.

But not now.

He is drawn from his increasingly melancholy contemplations by the sound of Rose beginning to cry, and with a quick look at the clock-that informs him, in red blinking lights-that it’s four am, he makes his way to the counter, where he already has a bottle ready at the right temperature.  Gold truly enjoys this little ritual-ever since their bizarre encounter in the kitchen a few weeks ago where Isobel had come to the truly _insane_ conclusion that he didn’t want her and he had straightened her out in the most pleasurable way that he most certainly _did_ , they’ve come to the unspoken agreement that the 4 am feeding is his responsibility.  And it’s most certainly for the best; it allows Isobel her much needed rest, and it saves him from himself and his own dark thoughts-the night is still not his friend, so frankly, it’s a win-win.

Additionally, it’s anything but a hardship to hold his daughter-rest her little body into the curve of his arm and watch her blink back at him with Belle’s eyes, her tiny rosebud mouth wrapped around the nipple of the bottle.  This is another thing he didn’t have the opportunity to do with Bae; for all the actions of his wife were horrible in abandoning her child-no matter how disappointing her husband had been-she had at least had the courtesy to stay until Bae had been weaned.  There is a part of him that is truly relieved for that-bottle feeding was not the easy thing that plastic makes it in this world-but he will admit that, having now had the experience with Rose, there is a part of him that is sad he missed it before.

By that time he has reached Rose’s room, and so he makes haste in going in and picking her up from her crib, cradling her to support her head.  Her cries tamper off in volume as soon as she is in his arms, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t fill him with a certain sense of fatherly pride.  However because he knows that she is still hungry and her cries will resume-at frankly an impressive volume-if she is not fed, he wastes no time in seating himself in the rocking chair and leading the bottle to her mouth, smiling gently when she wastes no time in latching on greedily.

“There’s my girl, yes, you’re a hungry little lass, aren’t you?” He says softly, staring into her lovely little eyes as he rocks, just for the pleasure of saying it aloud, and he fancies that she-although she certainly can’t understand him-gets a certain comfort out of hearing his voice.

His tasks accomplished for the moment, he finds his mind wandering to the other woman who shares those eyes, and to the lovely little limbo they have fallen into since their talk.  Before, he had held back his affections not only because he had been unsure if they would have been welcome, but because she had also just had a baby-his baby-and he couldn’t imagine that would make her any more receptive.  Now, since their talk, he knows that his attentions are most _certainly_ welcome, and so he takes great pleasure in indulging in an urge as she’d said, kissing her in all the moments when he had just dreamed of before-at breakfast, in the library when she bites her lip, before they go to sleep-though he has not moved beyond kissing.

He was not lying to her when he said neither of them were truly ready-she because of her memory loss, and he for…a slightly more complicated reason.  The Dark One, for all its twisted desires, had been a strangely asexual thing-any carnal desires had been the desires of Rumpelstiltskin alone and after the disaster that had been his married life, Rumpelstiltskin had been a celibate creature for many years, too afraid of ridicule or disgust-because he had seen what he had become-to chance it.

His one carnal encounter had been the one that had eventually brought Rose into existence, and that had certainly not been enough to give him any sense of confidence, especially considering how it had ended.  So, although it would not be entirely accurate to say he is afraid of sex-because he absolutely is not-is would be fair to say that he is a bit…worried about his abilities in that particular area.

Though he must say, the gratifyingly dazed look that appears in Isobel’s eyes when he kisses her goes a long way to easing that particular fear.

Rose has finished her bottle by this point, so Gold pulls himself back into the moment, grabbing a cloth and moving her into a position to burp her, and then moving her back into his arms when she is finished so he can sing her back to sleep.  He didn’t originally start singing to her-it was mostly an accident brought on by the panic that a screaming baby that just _won’t stop crying_ induces at two am-but once he did he noticed she quieted immediately and fell asleep shortly afterwards, and so now it’s something he always includes.

He has a variety of lullabies that he sings to her, but tonight he sticks to the old-faithful, which seems to work the best.  He isn’t a particularly huge fan of the Beatles-he enjoys them but Beatlemania passed him by-but really, how can he resist _Golden Slumbers_?

He is still Rumpelstiltskin, and no imp worth his salt could resist wordplay like that one.

Sure enough, after a few verses, Rose’s little eyes grow heavy, and her breathing slows, modulates itself into the comfortable rhythm of sleep, and she makes that adorable little sleepy snuffle that she does, and so it is with a soft heart that Gold lowers his daughter back into her crib, tucking her precious little body into her blanket.

And then, for a second, he simply basks in the sight of his _daughter_ -a precious gift that although he knows he doesn’t deserve, he loves heart and soul-and that he promises to protect until his dying breath.

His will be a better father, this time.

This night however, instead of silently closing the door and making his way to his room for a few hours of sleep, he catches sight of something out of place, that promises to alter his nightly routine.

“My dear, you’re supposed to be asleep,” he whispers to Isobel, making his way over to her as she hovers in the nursery door, mindful of the sleeping baby, voice vaguely chastising though unembarrassed that she had been watching him, “You need your rest.”

“No amount of sleep could be more valuable than a second of watching you sing to her,” she says, voice intense, as he steps out into the hallway and closes the door quietly behind him, her eyes wet with the telltale sign of tears.

At that, he can’t help but indulge the urge to kiss her, and she melts into him, opening beneath his mouth like a blossoming flower, and at the _sounds_ that she makes Gold has to physically resist the urge to fist his hands in that chestnut hair of hers and just _take_ her, fear and readiness be damned.

“That’s terribly sweet, my dear, but you might feel differently in the harsh light of the morning when you’re bleary-eyed,” he says, after they have finally broken apart, and he has ruthlessly suppressed the particular _urge_ that the look in her eyes and her tumbled, bed-headed hair inspires as he instead places a hand on the small of her back and leads her gently to her room, “To bed, my dear.”

There is a moment of silence, where she looks at the floor and seems to gather her courage, before she finally meets his eyes and entreats softly, halfway into the doorway of her room, “Stay?”

“Nightmares again?” He asks, his voice heavy with concern, because her nightmares had seemed to have petered off after she had confronted Regina and had Rose, and he’d hate to have missed a sign of them and left her suffering for all this time.

“No,” she says simply, cutting off his worry at the knees, and then she continues sweetly, offering her hand out to him, something that nearly makes his heart stop, “Stay anyways?”

He’s aware that he’s staring at her like an idiot, entirely frozen by just the thought of the privilege of being allowed to sleep beside her-the joy and the torture of having her body wrapped innocently around his.  However he is clearly frozen for too long as she says, “Just for sleep,” like she thinks he has to be sold on the idea, her eyes beginning to lose confidence, and so because he cannot have that, he does the only thing he can do.

He takes her hand.

The smile that she gives him makes him feel like he could fight dragons for her, and so he follows her helplessly into her room and this space that he knows every inch of seems alien with her little hand in his, as she draws him down to the bed- _her bed_ -with her.

It should be strange perhaps, this fitting of body parts and allocation of space-this is something that not even his memories of their time together in the Dark Castle can help him with, because for all the intimacy that they had shared, this had not been one of them-and so he is expecting it to be awkward.

And yet she curls into him, fitting into his body like she was made for him, curling her hand over his heart like she’s claiming it-as if it wasn’t already hers-and then, with a brush of her mouth against his she is asleep, and he is left awake, his heart fluttering helplessly.

Perhaps it is not yet true love-not the love of Belle and Rumpelstiltskin-but it is definitely love, and it is enough for Gold for now.

And so, despite the uncertainty of the looming future, for the first time in centuries, Rumpelstiltskin falls easily to sleep, with a light heart and an occupied bed.

He has a family again.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah, so I have no idea what happened to this chapter. This was originally going to be a fluffy chapter on Gold being a father again, and then it got strangely introspective as several plot bunnies jumped me. Vicious little buggers. But I like how it turned out; it addresses a few things, like the differences between Isobel and Belle and Mr. Gold and Rumpelstiltskin; and how there actually are differences, his son, as well as the fact that their happiness can’t really truly last in a Storybrooke still cursed, and how I imagine Gold might have mixed feelings about that. And there is some fluff, which keeps me from hanging myself! Also, to pre-empt anyone who might disagree with Rumpelstiltskin not thinking he was a good father, let me just say; I think he tried to be a good father and loved his son a lot, and I totally respect that, but this is supposed to be in his perspective, and since I think the fact that he let his son go-which, no matter how much he regretted it, is not the action of a good parent-created some serious angst, which was what I was trying to tap into. People who are poor can still be great parents and love their children and I wasn’t trying to suggest otherwise, I was just mostly trying to highlight the differences in the two worlds and the problems associated with his life pre and post magic in the Enchanted Forrest. Additionally, if unrelatedly, as a few of you have brought this up-Rose apparently could use a middle name. Nothing really jumps out at me, so I offer the opportunity to you, the readers; drop me a review with a suggested middle name, and I’ll pick the name I like best and credit it to the reviewer! Come on, you know you want too…
> 
> That said, the next chapter is back to Emma’s POV and it’s the beginning of our final story ark, and so, as always, I hope you enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	12. Emma and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Look, the title was funny, ok?

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

_“I thought it was her wicked stepmother who poisoned her...'_

_'...Turned out the wicked stepmother had an alibi.'_

_'...Seems she was off poisoning someone else at the time. Chance in a million, really. It was just bad luck.”_

_―_ John Connolly _, The Book of Lost Things_

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

So, there’s a part of Emma that really doesn’t want to make this visit.

Because well, she loves Rose-would have loved her even if Gold and Isobel hadn’t cornered her at the hospital and in an impressive display of puppy-dog eyes; Isobel-and ruthlessly capitalizing on her post-new-baby-oh-my-god-high; Gold-and talked her into being Rose’s godmother. And she loves that Gold and Isobel are rocking the whole happy family thing with Rose-frankly, it’s adorable to watch Gold have to fumble through this just like all the little people-and this town could desperately use some happiness.

And so she’d do anything really to prolong their little patch of happiness, she really would.

But well, see magical happiness sucking curse that Emma has no fucking idea how to break.

And see Rumpelstiltskin being the only person-? Imp, whatever-who has any knowledge about the curse-beyond Regina, and yeah, obvious snag there.

Hence, Emma’s visit and her dilemma.

And really, she’s given them as much time as she can and still have a clean conscience, because hey, this is the town that time forgot for _thirty years_ , so it’s not like a few months are going to kill anyone.  But well beyond that Emma starts to feel a bit negligent in her Savior duties, and although a part of her still wants to cut and run every time she thinks about that, she really is, for the most part, ready to get on with the curse breaking.

And it’s not because of Jefferson and his daughter.

No really.

Shut-up, fluttering stomach.

Ok, so it’s not _entirely_ because of Jefferson and his daughter.  It’s also because of Mary Margaret and David, and Henry and Paige/Grace, and Granny and Ruby, and Archie, and _everyone_.

It’s because it’s the _right_ thing to do.

She’s become Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

God, Emma really wants a drink.

She refrains, unfortunately, because even if Henry wasn’t with her, having this particular conversation liquored up is a terrible idea, and so, with a slightly heavy heart, Emma knocks on Gold’s door.  It’s Isobel who answers, holding little Rose, and so Emma buries her agenda for a second in favor of cooing over her god-daughter, which is no hardship.  It’s especially adorable to watch Henry with Rose-he’s delegated himself her older brother/protector figure-and it’s absolutely heart-meltingly sweet to watch her son hold Rose, cradle her carefully in his arms and watch his eyes light up as her little hands curl around his larger finger.

Her son, the little prince.

Emma’s heart fucking _quivers_ with love.

She really wants to be his mother.

This exchange lasts for a while, but then Isobel excuses herself to go feed Rose, and Emma and Henry and Gold are left alone, and she really can’t justify putting this off anymore. 

However she clearly procrastinates too long, because it’s Gold, who, with a perceptive look breaks the silence, saying, “So, I’d hate to cast aspirations, but I have a feeling this is more than just a social call to see the baby,” after he’s sure that Isobel is out of hearing range.

“No,” Emma starts, almost pathetically grateful that she didn’t have to bring it up, “I wanted to talk to you about the curse, and how to break it.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea how to break it,” Gold says after a long moment, his voice blasé but lacking any sense of flippancy.

“Seriously?” Emma finds herself saying, a cross between incredulous and nonplussed, as she points out the obvious, “You _made_ the curse.”

At that, he shoots her a _look_ , somewhere between chastising and apologetic, before he sits forward in his chair, posture almost defensive as he says, “And I added a loophole dearie-you.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t help as much as you’d think,” she says slowly after a moment, because really, she obviously doesn’t know how to break the curse-hence this whole fucking conversation.

“I do apologize dearie, but curses are valuable _because_ they are hard to break.” He says, voice sarcastic and entirely unapologetic, before he sprawls back into his chair, a mockery of a king sitting on a throne, but his voice as he continues is entirely serious, “I can tell you that all curses require sacrifice-to make them and to break them.  And this curse was the curse to end all curses…”

After he trails off leadingly, there is a moment where what he’s said simply sinks in, before Emma breaks it, voice a sarcastic drawl, “Great…so massive sacrifice all around then. _Terrific_.”

Gold merely tips his head towards her, an ironic gesture of acknowledgement, and then another silence falls, equally as uncomfortable as the previous ones.  However this isn’t the only conversation she needed to have with Gold and so after a moment, Emma breaks the silence this time, as she turns to Henry and says, politely, but with a speaking look, “Henry, why don’t you go help Isobel with Rose for a second.”

Henry shoots her a look that clearly says yeah, pull the other one, it has bells on it-a look that is so her she is almost proud-but at the pleading look in her eyes he relents, rising with a simple but long suffering, “Ok,” before he goes upstairs to do just that.

Henry gone, Gold raises his eyebrow quizzically, the gesture only slightly sardonic, and after Emma takes a second to just note that, of all of the people in this town, _Gold_ is her best confidant-because really, what the ever-living fuck-before she gets to the point.

“I’m meeting with Regina after this-to work out a truce regarding Henry,” she says, voice somewhere between distaste and still lingering surprise, because yeah, that had been one weird fucking phone call that part of her is still hoping she imagined.

Gold clearly is just as enthusiastic as her about the idea, although he keeps his face guarded and his cards close to his chest as he leans forward and asks, voice carefully neutral, “Do you think that’s wise?”

Emma gives him a helpless shrug of acknowledgement, before she gets into the meat of the problem, “I don’t trust her, but we’re only going to hurt Henry if we keep on this this. So if I want to be his mother-or at least continue to be in his life-then I guess I have to suck it up and deal.”

And then, with a knowing, sarcastic look, she drawls, “Sacrifice, right?”

“That’s the spirit dearie,” Gold returns easily, riding the line somewhere between mocking and sincere, and it’s the underlying understanding in his tone that has Emma biting back any responses she might have had let fly.

They’re no strangers to sacrifice, she and Gold.

They both know that this is going to get worse before it gets better.

By that time however, Isobel and Henry have returned with Rose, and so after another few moments of conversing with them, Emma makes her excuses and, with one final kiss to Rose’s little head, Emma and Henry leave, so that Emma can have a heart to heart with Regina.

_Yippee._

This thing is, Emma doesn’t trust Regina, not as far as she could throw her, because hey, even if she wasn’t the Evil Queen, she still locked a pregnant woman up for 30 years, for the sole crime of being in love.

It’s a real sore point with Emma.

But Regina is right about one thing; as much as Emma hates to admit it, she is Henry’s mother.

Because Emma did give Henry up, and while she sticks by that decision as the best one for Henry, Regina was the one that chose him and raised him-ten years of being his mother, late night feedings and fevers and monsters under the bed-and for all that she’s a cast iron bitch, the only thing negative thing that Regina’s ever done to Henry was try to supress his imagination-which, frankly, before she had believed in the curse, Emma had actually supported, just in  a different way.

And Emma still got her lie detector, which if she’s honest, tells her that in the case of Regina, she may be a fucking horrible person who has done some truly evil things, but she loves Henry. And in the matter of being judged for past misdeeds, Emma might not be an Evil Queen, but she also doesn’t have any room to throw stones.

Glass houses, and all that.

And so, if they want to make his work, without hurting Henry, then they’re going to have to come to some kind of truce.

At least until the curse is broken.

Because, well, after that, considering Rumpelstiltskin and Jefferson and the axes-both literal and metaphorical-they have to grind, Emma doesn’t put much weight on Regina making old bones.

It an idea that bothers her less than it probably should, especially with her being the Sheriff.

But then, there’s a justice to this as well.

But that’s then, and this is now, and Emma still has no fucking idea how to break the curse, so she’s going to put her big girl panties on and deal.

With the Evil Queen.

Still no on that drink, huh?

And so, after she drops Henry off at the park to play with Paige-and seriously, there is no sweeter thing than her son’s face as it lights up when he sees Paige-Emma makes her way to Regina’s home for the conversation-that-she-really-doesn’t-want-to-have-part-two.

The door opens only seconds after she knocked-Regina was waiting for her-something she isn’t sure how to feel about.  However that feeling is buried momentarily when Regina speaks, “Emma,” nothing but her name, tone a mask of casual civility, and Emma has to resist the urge to raise her eyebrows at the almost welcoming smile on her face.  For all that Regina is an overbearing bitch, she’s a hell of an actress, because if Emma wasn’t blessed with a life of hard knocks, she might have believed it was a genuine gesture.

However Emma does pick up on the false edge, and so she forgoes returning the gesture as she follows Regina into the kitchen, and instead simply announcing in greeting, tone as civil as she can make it, “Regina.”

She does not say she is glad to see her.

They’d both know it was a lie.

Regina clearly acknowledges this, as her mouth quirks once, almost in commiseration, before her face clears once again into that strange mask of forced kindness as she asks, with less than her usually subtlety, “Have you given any thought to what we spoke about?”

Emma takes a moment, considers the bluntness.  Regina is usually all angles and sharp edges-six moves ahead and a thumb resting _just so_ on your jugular that you don’t even notice the pressure until you’re gasping for air-and so this straight forward approach is intriguing.  It’s either a cover-up, for an underlying scheme, or it’s genuine, based on the fact that Regina is a mother trying not to lose her son, and although Emma thinks it might be both, she’s also beginning to suspect it might be more the latter than the former.

She’s not sure how she feels about that.

However she has given the matter some thought, and so, contemplation over, she answers, laying out her position simply, “Yeah, I have and you’re right. You are his mother, and we’re only going to hurt him if we continue on this way.” And then she pauses, and continues with the important part, “So I’m willing to back down a bit, as long as you’re willing to let me still see him.”

“That does sound fair, and a great deal less painless than I imagined,” Regina answers after a moment, the first true note of honesty in her voice, before she continues, breaking eye contact to remove something from the oven, and it disappears beneath a veil of careful, barbed civility, “I’m glad we can come to an agreement-for Henry of course.”

“Of course,” Emma returns, dry as the fucking desert, and then they lapse into a bit of an awkward silence as Regina fiddles with whatever she’s just taken out of the oven-some pastry, maybe it’s a bake sale at Henry’s school-and Emma lets her mind drift to the situation at hand.

It’s less of a truce and more of an armistice, Emma acknowledges-a temporary ceasefire of arms-and both she and Regina know it.  For all that Regina is being civil, she’s got a look about her-just at the edges of her eyes-that suggests that a part of her would rather just turn Emma into a bug or something and then squash her and smile at her funeral. And well, Emma can’t throw any stones because she’s about three quarters sold on the idea of leaving Regina to Rumpelstiltskin’s and Jefferson’s mercy and sleeping well for doing it.

Hardly the basis of a solid truce.

However she’s pulled back into the moment by Regina, who says, her tone once again all business, “Well, I have a meeting, but before you go, please, take a snack with you.” And then she offers the still unidentified pastry towards Emma, packaged in a Tupperware container, before she continues, voice once again overly sweet, “As a token of our new start.  It’s a family recipe.”

It’s a bit of a weird fucking gesture, but Emma’s lived with too many foster kids to have it jar her.  Sometimes, she knows, baking is just a comfort-you’d give the results to a super-villain-because you’re really only interested in the feeling that the process creates, and the mental image of Regina the friendly baker is too funny to pass up.  So she supposes that makes the turnover-she thinks it’s a turnover, although she’s not sure because baking and she have never gotten along-look, it was _one_ kitchen fire, alright?-Regina offers is kind of like a handshake; a-I’ll-stop-actively-trying-to-steal-your-son-if-you-let-me-see-him-and-don’t-shank-me-until-I-break-that-curse-of-yours-I don’t-know-about-turnover.

It’s a complicated pastry.

Drink, please, anyone?

But it’s the best agreement they’re going to come to, and they both know it, and so instead of giving into the urge to punch Regina in her annoyingly superior face, Emma bites the bullet and takes the damned maybe-turnover, accepting the deal.

“Thanks,” she says finally, “I’ll show myself out,” before making a beeline for the door.  This weird, forced civility is starting to freak her out-after a life of scumbag boyfriends and snake oil salesman bail jumpers, Emma much prefers honest negativity to false pleasantness.  And Regina’s saccharine kindness has claws-this Emma knows from experience-and so, although Emma is aware that, as she starts up her car this could be seen as running away, she’s perfectly willing to call this a strategic retreat and get the hell out before she gets mauled. 

It’s a short drive home-Henry is playing with Paige and then going home to Regina’s-his mother’s, Emma forces herself to remember-and so Emma simply makes her way back to the apartment.  The lights are all out when she gets there-Mary Margaret must be out, likely doing something David related.  Emma experiences only a moment of discontent when she walks into the kitchen at the idea, because yeah, when the curse breaks David is going to end up being her father and a fabulous guy, but right now he’s a bit of a wimp and fucking bastard who’s breaking her mother/roommate’s heart.  Still, Mary Margaret is a big girl and her own woman, and Emma’s got to be content with letting her make her own mistakes.

Emma’s not her mother, after all.

The irony of that is becoming increasingly less funny.

But because she refuses to let the melancholy that thought threatens grow, she shakes off that thought in favor of opening up the container and plating the maybe-turnover, and giving it a whiff to see what flavor it is.

It’s apple.

And then she can’t help but pause for a second because well, first rule of fairy-tales.

Don’t accept fruit-apples especially-from Evil Queens/beggar women/hags/ _anyone_.

Look, just don’t take the fruit, alright.

And then Emma gives herself a shake because this is a truce _because_ they’re in the land without magic, after all.  There are no magical poison apples here, and even Regina might have a hard time explaining how she didn’t know there was cyanide-or something-in the maybe-turnover she gave to her obvious rival.  It’d be mutually assured destruction, and Regina is many things but stupid isn’t one of them.

Sometimes an apple is just an apple. 

Regina must just enjoy the irony, and frankly, for all that it’s a bit-read _massively_ -passive aggressive, Emma almost sees the humor.

More subtle than a chainsaw, but it’s the same message she supposes.

So, with that in mind, she mentally shrugs, cuts herself a piece of the possible-turnover, and raises the fork to her mouth.

Irony smells really good, and well, waste not, want not, after all.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dundundun! Again…Wow I’m a terrible person. Sorry for the wait-work’s a bitch but it pays the bills, unlike this. So that was that, the beginning of our end ladies and gents, and for anyone who is going…wait, this sounds a bit like what they did in the show…sort of…well it’s supposed to. We’re going to be flirting with canon from here on out-but fret not, it will definitely have its own flair to it-no parroting canon here. The title is a tip of the hat to Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for no particular reason really. Also, thank you to everyone who sent in middle name recommendations-they were all awesome-but it actually turns out that, by a vote of majority, most people seem to think that Rose doesn’t need a middle name. So, accommodate everyone as best we can, anyone who prefers Rose without a middle name, there will never be a middle name added to the story. For everyone who really wanted one, the name I would have picked (and the name you are free to imagine is her middle name) is Emily, in honor of Emma, suggested by AmysGirl20, who also suggested along with Row on AO3 that Emma should be the god-mother. That said, the next chapter is Henry’s POV and I think you’ll enjoy it (Henry and Paige cuteness!), as I hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter, and as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	13. An Apple A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’d very much like to own this, but I don’t. *sad* Now I’m going to go eat worms…

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_“Danny couldn't help it, he laughed as he shook his head. “You bit the apple."_

_"I bit the apple," Paul agreed. His eyes glimmered bright blue as tears welled up in them and he gave Danny a soft smile.”_

― Kele Moon, _Beyond Eden_

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Normally, there’s nothing more in the world Henry loves than playing with Paige.

Even if his stomach didn’t flutter when he sees her, she still thinks up the best games out of everyone in their class, and she’s never thought he was weird for liking fairy-tales.

But normally, Emma isn’t meeting with his mom to discuss seeing him.

Emma thinks he doesn’t know, but his mom’s voice carries pretty well in their house, and she hadn’t checked to see if he was actually sleeping or not before she had made the call.

Rookie mistake.

So naturally, Henry had heard the whole conversation, and naturally, he’s a little worried.  Because Emma can take care of herself-she really can-but his mom had been far too happy this morning when she had ushered him out the door.

That never means anything good.

Which is why, after he plays with Paige, he’s going to Emma’s place instead of home.  He hasn’t told anyone that last part yet, because his mom would totally forbid it, and because Emma would think he’s over-worrying, but Henry knows his mom, and he knows that she would hurt Emma to keep him.

Henry will do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.

But, until then, he’s got Paige- deviations from routine are a dead giveaway and its _Paige_ , with her braids and her blonde hair and her purple overalls-and so he’s going to enjoy himself while he still can.

They’re in the park today, which is his favorite place to play with Paige.  There are a lot of reasons-the playground makes a good castle, the trees make a good enchanted forest, and the pond makes a good sea.  It’s the perfect place for two kids with imaginations like theirs to play, because it can be anywhere.

And yet, that isn’t why he always suggests the park.

It’s because he knows Jefferson has a good view.

Yeah, it’s kind of creepy, but Jefferson _is_ her dad, and it’s Henry’s mom’s curse that did this, and so he likes to try and help when he can.  It isn’t fair that Paige can’t remember her dad-even though her curse parents are nice enough people, if a bit boring-and it isn’t fair that they can’t be a family, and so although Henry can’t break the curse or make Paige remember, he can at least show Jefferson that she’s happy and healthy.

Show him that he’ll take care of her, until Jefferson can again.

So, after Emma drops him off, he greets Paige and then let’s her pick the game they’ll play, because hers are always interesting, and because it makes her happy.  She picks tea party, which would be boring expect for the fact that Paige’s tea parties are always _epic_. This one is no different; it’s like a magical adventure where Henry and Paige have to fight off pirates, witches, cross the desert and the fiery volcano, all so they can rescue Paige’s kidnapped stuffed White Rabbit and then take him to tea, where they are then ambushed by evil mimes-not that all mimes aren’t evil.

Like he said, _epic_.

She’s the perfect girl.

And so he’s having fun, he really is, but there’s also something weighing on him-more than just his mom and Emma.  Emma doesn’t know how to break the curse, this he knows, but he feels-something he can’t really explain-that something big-though he doesn’t know what-is going to happen very soon.  And he’s happy about that, he really is, because breaking the curse was the main reason he brought Emma here and his main mission since he did, but now, with the possibility of it actually happening, something has occurred to him that makes him worry.

Because Paige’s name isn’t Paige. 

It’s Grace.

Paige’s parents are Mary and George Hatton; Grace’s father is Jefferson.

Paige likes tea parties, hair ribbons and playing make believe with Henry.

Henry doesn’t know what Grace likes.

Paige likes being Henry’s friend.

Henry’s afraid that Grace might not.

Henry doesn’t know how the curse works, but he knows that although Mary Margaret is _like_ Snow White-shares some similarities-she isn’t Snow White.  Same with Prince Charming and David and Ruby and Red Riding Hood, and everyone in this whole town who isn’t Mr. Gold-sort of, ‘cause Rumpelstiltskin was all alone and Mr. Gold isn’t and that has to matter for something-his mom, Emma or Henry himself.

And so he wants the curse to be broken, he really does, but…

But he’s afraid of losing Paige.

This, naturally, causes him some worry, and apparently it shows on his face because Paige stops trying to defeat an invisible mime with a twig sword-she’s winning, but mimes are vicious-and instead she comes over to him, her face twisted with concern as she asks, “You stopped playing-what’s wrong Henry?”

Henry doesn’t answer right away, thoughts too jumbled, and his throat is choked with things he doesn’t say.  I really like you, he wants to say, because you’re funny and pretty and _Paige_ , and that’s a problem, because soon you won’t be Paige anymore.   

Don’t forget me, he wants to say. When Emma breaks the curse and you’re who you really are again, please don’t forget me.

But well, he decides with growing resolve, if she does, then he’ll just have to become friends with the girl that she becomes. 

Henry’s only ten-he doesn’t know that much about love-but he thinks this could be what it feels like.

And so, that in mind, he smiles at her, the brave girl in the purple overalls holding the white rabbit and says, “Nothing, Paige,” and it’s almost not even a lie. “Everything is ok.”

Paige clearly doesn’t believe him completely, because she shoots him a suspicious look before she says, voice earnest, “If there ever was anything, ask me first ok? I’d help, I promise.”

“You’re always first,” he says simply, without thinking, and means it. When he was five she was first and when he was ten she was first and when he got Emma she was first.

She’s always been first.

Henry thinks that she might always be first, for him.

Paige’s eyes go strange for a second, and Henry worries that he’s said too much, before something determined appears on her face, and she steps up close to him, close enough that he can count the freckles on her nose-four, if one was curious-and breathe the same air that she does, if Henry was breathing at this moment, which he is not.  

And then, she does something she’s never done before.

She kisses his cheek, lips soft and sweet, and this doesn’t feel like a gesture between friends.

Henry’s stomach flutters helplessly in response.

“Good,” Paige says when she steps back, her cheeks flushed but her eyes never waver from his and Henry can’t look away, caught in this moment.

Henry decides that no matter what happens-with Emma and his mom and the curse and Grace-he’s going to marry this girl.

Although asking Jefferson for his blessing is going to suck.

She’s worth it.

Paige finally breaks her gaze from his, staring at her shoes that aimlessly kick at the ground and the moment is gone, and Henry lets it-there’s time, he will _make_ time-and instead they resume playing, the two of them waging war against an army of evil, rabbit stealing mimes.

The mimes, naturally, fall under their combined might.

Henry thinks that maybe, just maybe, together they can do anything.

However by that times it’s getting late, and Henry knows that Emma and his mom will be done by now, and so, with a goodbye to Paige, he leaves the park, taking a shortcut to Emma’s.  It’s a quick walk; Henry knows all the best shortcuts, and Storybrooke’s pretty small-big for a spell but small for a town-and so it’s only a few minutes before he gets to Emma and Mary Margaret’s, where he knocks on the door impatiently.

Luckily he doesn’t have long to wait, as after a few seconds Emma opens the door and, when she notices it’s him, ushers him inside before she says, voice warm but verging on concerned, “Henry, hey. You’re supposed to be at your mom’s. Is everything alright?”

The concern in her tone sets something warm off in Henry’s stomach, but he pushes it down in favor of his own worry for her, because out of the two of them, Emma is the one in the most potential danger right now.  But he doesn’t know how exactly to express his fears, so he settles on saying, “I just wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“I’m fine Henry,” Emma says, eyes soft, before she asks cautiously, “Why would you think I wouldn’t be?”

However Henry doesn’t answer her, in favor of looking around the room for anything out of place.  Everything in the apartment seems to be the same-the only difference is that there’s a turnover on the counter, a small square taken out of one of the corners that seems to be resting on a fork hastily dropped on the side of a plate-he interrupted her with his knock on the door.  The pastry shouldn’t be suspicious-Emma likes sweet things as much as the next person, and she’ll sneak a cupcake with him when they’re at the dinner planning Operation COBRA-but something about it sends a strange feeling through his gut.

And so, trusting that feeling-because it’s the one that got him on a bus to Boston in the first place-Henry says, nodding at the pastry, voice carefully casual, “Did you get that at the diner?”

“No, actually your mom made it for me,” Emma says, like that doesn’t matter and Henry’s stomach clenches because he knows it does, “And that’s another thing, we’ve got to talk about-”

However Henry cuts her off quickly, “Did you eat any of it?” And his words rush out in his haste and his worry as he sniffs the pastry and comes up with the smell of apple. Henry is the boy with the fairy-tale book, and his mother is the Evil Queen.

Apples are a bad thing.

However Emma’s reply puts his creeping edge of fear back a few steps as she says, “No…I was about to and then you knocked on the door.” And then, with those sharp eyes of hers trained to him, “What’s up?”

“It’s _apple_ ,” he says simply, and then, at her look, realizing she doesn’t get it he elaborates, “it’s poison.”

“Henry…” Emma starts, voice kind but it’s clear that she doesn’t believe him, “I’m on board with this whole Evil Queen thing, really I am. But this is the land without magic, right? The turnover is fine.”

And then, with a grimace she continues, voice less than enthusiastic but still serious, “And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Regina’s still your mother, evil or not. As much as I hate it, you really gotta cut her some slack.”

And then she pauses, to allow him some input, but Henry isn’t listening, because he’s too busy remembering what Mr. Gold said.

All curses require sacrifice, to create and to break them.

He never said it had to be Emma’s sacrifice.

So Henry will make this one.

“You’ll save me,” he says, snatching up the turnover before Emma can protest, “I believe in you.”

And then, thinking of Emma and Paige and _love_ , bites into the turnover.

And then nothing but darkness, as he falls into his mother’s arms.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bait and switch for the win! And I must admit, I did toy briefly with the idea of having Emma bite into the turnover and have Henry have to go save her, but I decided against it, because then Henry would have to go fight that dragon, and I’m pretty sure that sword has a not safe for children under the age of 16 warning on it or something. Besides, it’s just not the same statement, and in this fic especially, mother’s love is pretty important. Also I’m not sure if there is a Henry/Paige ship, but if not then I am building one and going down with it, because I am so in love with them right now!! 
> 
> Also, for anyone who’s going, but Jefferson wouldn’t do that because he and Emma had a deal, there will be a snippet fic later explaining why he would. That said, I’m pretty sure everyone has figured out where we are going with this right now, but since it’s not the same and I don’t want to spoil anything so I’ll simply say that next is Gold’s POV, and that we’re babyfying canon all up in here! And yes, the next chapter Belle will find out that Gold is the legit baby daddy, I promise! Three guesses to how she’ll take that, and the first two don’t count! Lastly, please check out the new art at the beginning of the fic!! I give you, baby Rose!! That said, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


	14. The Town on the Edge of Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time or any of its brilliant characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of entertainment, and promise to return them in (mostly) pristine condition. Look, I ran out of ways to make this funny, ok?

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_“There is the great lesson of 'Beauty and the Beast;' that a thing must be loved before it is lovable.”_

― G.K. Chesterton

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Life in Storybrooke has always had a sense of routine to it; thirty years without the passing of time can’t help but lead to such, and so Gold, the only person who had been awake in a town of the sleep-walking, had grown tired of the monotony. 

Gold finds that he quite enjoys this new routine though.

It includes waking up to find Isobel wrapped around him, of kisses and breakfast and his daughter, of work, and then coming home not to an empty house but to his- _his_ -two girls, and diner, and the library, and bed, and feedings with his daughter and happiness.

 _So_ much happiness.

It does not usually include Emma and Regina barging into the shop, calling him Rumpelstiltskin and needing a way to save their son.

Naturally, it throws it for a second; but _only_ a second.

Rumpelstiltskin is adaptable, after all.

It only takes a few seconds to parse out all the details of the situation. Regina baked an apple turnover for Emma, but because Regina is little more than a Bond villain, she never learned the value of staying to watch the hero actually _take_ the poison-not a mistake Rumpelstiltskin made twice-Henry ate the damned thing instead, because the boy is too brave for his own good.  And then Henry fell into a coma and Regina and Emma decided to work together to save him, and they came to him, because he’s Rumpelstiltskin, and that’s just what people do.  Break something and then come crying to him to fix it.

_Typical._

But Gold has a special fondness for Henry, the brave little boy that believed when no one else did, and so although a large part of him is entirely tempted to tell Regina to go fuck herself and not help, that would mean letting the boy die, and that is unacceptable.

And so Rumpelstiltskin finds himself helping the Evil Queen and the Savior save the boy.

He’s done weirder.

And so, he plans, because curses require sacrifice, this is true, but rarely do people remember that so does love.  Questing is stupid and over dramatic, but it is also necessary for true love.  Which means that Emma-not Regina, and yes, he enjoyed _that_ a great deal-has to go on some kind of quest if she wants to save her son.

So, dragon slaying.

That ought to do it.

Worked for Prince Charming, after all.

But, he acknowledges, as Regina and Emma set off to do just that-and let him just take a moment to say that the looks on their faces when he pulled out Charming’s sword are going to amuse him until the day he dies-this is where his intentions get a little…murky.

Because he’s serious about helping them rescue the boy, he is, but they don’t need the magic he stored away to do that.  They’ve been over this whole thing before with Charming and Snow White-Henry will live as long as his mother loves him enough for her kiss to break the curse, and if she’s successful in her quest Gold has no doubt it will work.  On the other hand, Gold does need it, because that magic was never meant to free just one person.

It was meant to free _all_ of them.

When he told Emma he didn’t have the first clue on how to break he curse, he wasn’t lying. He doesn’t have the _first_ clue. The second…

Well that’s a different matter.

See, the thing about the Dark Curse is, it was not made of noble intentions-nothing so dark could have been.  Too say that he made the Dark Curse to find his son is not wrong, but it is also not the whole truth-the truth is more complicated than that. If his son had been his only motive, there were easier ways to go about it; he could have broken into Regina’s castle, taken Jefferson’s hat-really, it’s not like she could hide having such a thing from _him_ -and been on his merry way. He could have found the Blue Fairy or a hundred of her little fairy minions and _squeezed_ until he had enough fairy-dust to take a return trip to the edge of the bloody universe.

So no, while his son had been on his mind, he hadn’t been the only motivator.

Sometimes, you just do things to see if you _can_.

He is perfectly aware of what kind of monster that makes him.

But the fact still stands; the Dark Curse was like no other curse-he had woven that curse using his very own soul, and his power lives in every layer of that curse, and therein lays the problem.

Because there are many, _many_ layers.

Gold hasn’t the faintest idea how to break the first one-this layer is for Emma, and only she can break it.  But the second layer, this one Gold remembered, and this one Gold secreted away the magic of true love to break.

This is the one that will bring magic back.

Because, the hard truth of the matter is, this is the land without magic.  And although most people see the poetry in that turn of phrase, they miss the obvious paradox inherent in it.

They will never make it back to the Enchanted Forrest without bringing magic to the land without magic, because in doing so, it becomes a land _with_ magic. And once they are in a land with magic then really, as they say, all that’s left after that is the crying.

Well, not really.

He’s drastically over simplifying it-there are other layers of the curse, and then there is Regina to deal with, and _oh_ , how he is going to enjoy that-but the general gist is there.  Magic needs to return for the curse to break, and Gold needs the vial he had Charming secret away to do that. And yes, he doesn’t know if Emma breaking the curse that has fallen on Henry will break the first layer, but the signs are right-sacrifice, true love, and a child, just to be extra dramatic-and so although Rumpelstiltskin has been dealing with magic for too many centuries to count his chickens before they hatch, his gut tells him retrieving the vial now is a good idea.

Especially because if the curse does begin to break, he’s going to need to restore magic before Regina realizes what he’s doing and tries to stop him, because as much as he thinks she’d enjoy having her magic back, he knows she’d forfeit it to keep everyone else from getting their magic back, and to keep the curse together. 

Regina took the heart of her father to enact this curse, after all.

Gold knows that there is nothing she wouldn’t do to keep it together.

If he didn’t hate her so bloody much, he might admire her for that.

But he does hate her, for Isobel and for Belle and for so much more, and so, after he’s determined that just the right amount of time has passed, Gold pockets a role of duct-tape and heads for the library.  His timing turns out to be good-there is no sign of Emma, only Regina standing by an elevator that screams magic, and it’s a sign of how preoccupied she is with this situation with Henry that she doesn’t notice his presence until he’s behind her, a hand to her mouth while the other keeps her still.

“Oh no dearie,” he hisses softly into her ear as she startles and tries to fight, his hand silencing any sounds she might try to make, not that Emma could hear her anyways, “You’re going to sit down and be a quiet little lass.”

And then, all poisonous charm, _“Please.”_

There is no magic in this land yet, but Gold is never without a weapon.

She sits and shuts up.

He regrets the subterfuge, he really does, but it’s a necessary evil. Regina can’t know that he and Emma are on decent terms, and she can’t know what he intends to do with the magic.

He doesn’t regret the opportunity to tie her to a chair.

His only regret there is that he uses duct-tape instead of barbed wire chains-hardware store apparently doesn’t sell those.

Pity.

He’d never let anything happen to that boy, but Regina, well…that’s a different matter entirely.

It’s quick work tying her up-if they ever do get back to the Enchanted Forrest duct-tape is going to be the first thing he tries to recreate-and it’s made quicker by the roughness that he uses-tenderness takes time, and there is none of that here.  It’s a good thing as well, as after a few silent minutes where Regina glares venomously at him and he stares blandly back, Emma, victorious in her quest-and though he had no love for Maleficent, he takes a second anyways to mourn the wicked for no one else will-yells up to start the elevator and so Gold does so, working the mechanism so it won’t bring her all the way up, setting his trap.

This he does regret, because Emma is half in shock-dragons do that, no matter how much she believed before-but he needs the magic and in this state Emma would be unlikely to hand it over  even if Regina wasn’t listening and she did know she could save her son another way.  And so he tricks her, uses all the tips he’s picked up over the years-lies like an artist about Regina’s departure and cajoles as one might a frightened animal.

“Don’t worry, dearie,” he says, and then, because he can’t take this from her and not help, “Just toss the egg up, and you’ll be able to go and see your boy and give him a kiss in no time.” And it’s the most help he can give considering Regina’s ears are listening to them, and he hopes she gets it.

It must work-or at least if it didn’t she believes he’s going to help her, and his is, just not with the magic in this egg-because she throws the egg up, and then, once it’s in his hands, he wastes no time in doing an about face and turning to leave-it won’t take Emma long to climb out, and he has to be gone by then. He only pauses for one indulgence, bending slightly so he can whisper into Regina’s ear as he passes her, still tied up.

“The worst thing,” he purrs, sibilant and dark, no hint of the man, only the monster as he strokes the egg with casual absentness, designed to draw her eye, “is losing your child and knowing it’s your fault. Perhaps, if he dies, I’ll keep your shrivelled little heart beating, so you can try to live every day with the knowledge that it was you that killed him,” he finishes, and they both know he means every word.

Regina’s look of pained horror is one that she gives him as he leaves with the egg is one that’s going to warm him on nights to come for _years_.

He owed her for _she died_ , anyways.

He makes quick time back to the shop, and when no one follows him, he breathes a quick sigh of relief, and stamps down hard on the trickle of guilt that is forming as he holds the egg in his hands-the boy will be fine, and magic will return.

In theory.

Dammit.

It’s moments like this that, no matter how much he loves Isobel, he really wishes for _Belle._

Because well, he is, in every way but one-at least in Isobel’s mind-Rose’s father. And he loves Isobel, he does-she’s not quite Belle, not quite true love-but its love all the same.

He’s happy with Isobel and Rose.

But it was Belle that tamed the beast in the Dark Castle-Belle who took a scared, cowardly monster and reminded him how to be a man again, and it was Belle who always knew what to say, and right now, he desperately needs that again.

Because magic returning to this cursed little town is the right thing to do.

But it’s also _terrifying_.

Because Rumpelstiltskin, for all his experience and years of magical use, doesn’t know what will happen when he drops that vial into the well. This land without magic made an effective cage for the Dark One for all these years, and in reversing that he doesn’t know if the cage will break and he will once again become the Dark One, scales and all; doesn’t know if he won’t-if he’ll remain a man, magicless, or regain magic and retain this human visage. 

Worse still, is the fact that he doesn’t know what he _wants_ to happen.

His power was never a preference as the Dark One, it was an addiction, and the sneaky part of an addiction is that one does not have to like something to crave it.  Magic is power, and Gold likes power, but magic is also a tremendous pain in the ass. Most people do not realize that when the magician warns that all magic has a price he is the one that has paid it the most, and Rumpelstiltskin is no different-far too weary of paying.

And then, of course, there is Isobel and Rose.

He had told Belle, before she strode out of the Dark Castle that his power had meant more to him than her, and this had been another lie that is also a truth.  His power had been like a hungry animal-the Dark One like a nest of angry wasps always hissing in his brain-addictive and tempting, but not well liked. But as the monster, alone in his castle he had not been bothered by it overly, because he had seen no alternative. But then there had been Belle-sweet, smart, beautiful Belle with her chipped cups and her falling and her _Belleness_ , and Rumpelstiltskin had seen an alternative and had _liked_ it. But naturally it hadn’t lasted-Belle had the power to remove the Dark One from him-to remove it from all _existence_ -and so although Rumpelstiltskin had loved Belle, the Dark One had hated her, feeding his fears of no one ever being able to love him and plots involving Evil Queens.

Rumpelstiltskin had been too much of a coward to fight those thoughts, and so the Dark One had won, and he had lost Belle.

He’s terrified that in returning magic, he’ll lose her again, and this time with her, their child.

Magic is not worth that.

And yet, he _has_ to do it, and he is still a coward.

Hence his overwhelming desire to talk to Belle.

Of course, because speak of the devil and he shall appear, it’s that moment that Isobel and Rose show up at the store, and so at the noise of the bell, Gold hides the vial away in one of his pockets and schools his face into something more normal before he moves to greet his two ladies, both adorable today-Isobel in a blue sundress and Rose in a white onsie with white ribbon roses for buttons.

And no matter the turbulence he is currently feeling, his heart can’t help but swell as he takes in the picture they make.  They have never mentioned the word love-he feels like he owes Belle the first ‘I love you’ and he thinks Isobel is afraid it might scare him off if she says anything-but there is love here, in this little family, and Gold is so grateful for every minute of it.

“We thought we’d come visit you at work,” Isobel says to him in greeting, bouncing Rose in the sling that she’s resting in-a fabric contraption that Gold is frankly terrified of-so that the baby gurgles at him delightfully, and so Gold can say nothing but, “I’m glad you did,” and even as he thinks of magic and the well and the Dark One, it’s not even a lie.

However Isobel, who is entirely too perceptive must notice something amiss on his face because after a moment she says, voice a mix of light concern and curiosity, “You have your plotting face on.”

At that, Gold can’t help but smile, but it’s a little too close to the truth, and so he tries to play off with a quip, bantering back lightly, “I’m pretty sure that’s just my regular face dear.”

“Very funny,” Belle allows with a smile, but she’s undeterred as she continues, voice now more concerned than curious, “What’s going on?”

He takes a second to consider how much to tell her, and then he makes a decision. Even if Emma can’t crack the curse, he’s still going to go to the well and return magic, because if not Regina or someone else will steal it and use it for something else, and then they’ll all be in trouble. Now, while Emma and Regina are preoccupied with Henry is the best shot he’ll get, and he doesn’t want to waste it.

But he also doesn’t want to go alone, and he especially doesn’t want to leave Isobel unprotected when magic returns, and so having her and Rose come with him is the best solution.  That decided, he turns further to Isobel and says casually, not quite the answer she is looking for, “There’s a wishing well at the outskirts of town that I was thinking of visiting. Would you and Rose care to join me?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d need to wish for,” Isobel says after a moment, voice soft, the most becoming of blushes on her cheeks, and Gold’s heart can’t help but flutter at the emotion he sees in her eyes.

Yes, there is love here.

“Neither can I, my dear,” he says, voice just as warm, injecting the things they will not say into his voice so that she will never doubt how he feels about her again. “But it is a lovely day, and I thought a walk and some fresh air might be nice.”

“I still think you’re plotting something,” Isobel says, because she’s always been a bright lass, but she says it kindly and so Gold isn’t worried, “but a walk would be nice.”

And then, as she loops her arm through his, “and a walk with you would be even nicer.”

He kisses her for that, quickly and sweetly, because he can’t not when she means every word.

She smiles at him fondly in response, and Rose gurgles happily, and so with that, he leads his family out for a walk, and tries to focus on that happy feeling, on the lovely sunshine of the day, the crisp comfort of the air-on Isobel’s reassuring warmth beside him and Rose’s innocent happiness.

Tries to ignore the weight of the vial in his pocket, and how it has the power to take all of that away.

How a part of him is craving that, even if it means losing everything.

So, needless to say, by the time they’ve almost gotten to the well, Gold’s a bit preoccupied. 

He’s never going to live down missing the rainbow ring of magic prompted by Emma cracking the first layer of the curse-the curse _he_ made-that sweeps through the town though. 

That one will be written on his tombstone. Here lies Rumpelstiltskin, who crafted the curse to end all curses, spent thirty years waiting for it to break and then missed it because he was too distracted while taking a nature walk.

But this is all just hindsight, because he does miss it, too lost in his own mind, and so Isobel’s sudden, “Wait,” is entirely a surprise, and almost goes unnoticed. And he’s still so caught up in his own mind that his answer of, “It’s just a little further dear, we can stop then,” is little more than a half functioning after-thought; whatever it is they can deal with it when they get to the well, because if he stops now he’s afraid he’ll never start up again.

But then she speaks again, and the world shifts beneath his feet.

“ _Rumpelstiltskin_ , wait,” she says, and well, _that_ stops him dead in his tracks and whips him out of his fugue pretty quickly, because Isobel doesn’t know to call him that.

Belle does.

_Oh._

True loves kiss. Packs quite the wallop when it’s true love doing the kissing apparently.

This, if one was wondering, is where the hindsight about the curse kicks in.

Rumpelstiltskin is entirely too busy being absorbed in _Belle_ to care.

“I remember,” Belle says- _Belle_ says-as she walks closer to where he is frozen in place, and before he has time to panic, because not all of the things she remembers are good ones, she wipes away the seeds of fear as she says, nothing but truth in her voice and love in her eyes, the words he once rejected and the words he’s been dying to hear again ever since, “I love you.”

“Yes,” he says to Belle, finally to _Belle_ , not willing to let another second go without saying it, “and I love you too.”

She wraps herself around him, careful of the baby still slung across her chest, and they fit together perfectly, and Rumpelstiltskin is unable to do more than press his face into Belle’s neck and _breathe_ , so overwhelmed by the feeling of her-emotions so varied they leave him raw and _wrecked_ -and the knowledge that this is _Belle_ that he’s holding-Belle who’s holding him back like she’ll never let him go.

He’d be more than alright with that.

However eventually they do have to draw apart, and when they do Gold can’t help but stare at her some more, drink her in and marvel at the wonder that after all this time, this is Belle here with him once again. But it’s then that the doubts start to creep in, because this is Belle-Belle who he cast from the Castle for loving him, Belle who he left in Regina’s clutches for thirty years and Belle who knows who the father of her child is, and perhaps most importantly, knows that he never told Isobel the truth.

Belle who knows that he’s a coward.

This must show on his face, because a bit of the happiness in her eyes begins to fade, and she asks, voice worried, “What is it?”

“I just…is that all?” He returns, neither an answer nor really a question, voice painfully cautious, because he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and losing her forever.

“Have I missed anything?” Belle says, and she seems _serious_ and part of Gold wants to cry while the other part seems to want to hysterically break into laughter because _has she missed anything?_ Really?

Where would he even start?

“It’s just…I’m her _father_ ,” he says incredulously, starting with the most important as he gestures helplessly at Rose, trying to express the thing that has been both his greatest joy and the root of all of his problems since he found out that she didn’t know.

“ _Ah_.  Right,” Belle says in response, a peculiar look in her eyes, voice too expressionless to be any comfort, and then she moves closer to him, adjusts Rose in her sling so that she’s laying further off to the side as she does.

And then she punches him in the face.

She’s got an impressive right hook for someone so petite.

“That is for not telling me,” she says, as his head spins and his jaw aches, and then, as if it’s an afterthought, “And for kicking me out of the Dark Castle.”

But instead of anger he was so expecting, her eyes are warm with affection, and she moves towards him, curls her fingers softly over the curve of his cheek and kisses the skin she just struck-a benediction and an apology that he can’t deserve- before she pulls back, only enough for him to meet her eyes and says, “Silly man,” her voice soft, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “you were already her father.”

And before he even has time to process that sheer magnitudes of that Belle continues, knocking him even further off his feet as she says, “And as for the other things-we both made mistakes-I was presumptuous and you were a cowardly asshole,” which he lets slide because he’s so dazed and because frankly he was, “and I forgave you for that ages ago.”

And then her whole face softens impossibly more as she says, voice earnest and simple, “And if these months here have shown anything, then you’ve forgiven me as well, so we’re alright.”

“It’s can’t be that simple,” he says, reeling, barely conscious he is speaking so great is his shock because of course it can’t be. They’ve got an emotional history that reads like a horror story and there’s no way that after everything-everything that _he_ did-that she can have forgiven him-no way that just like that they’re ok.

And for the first time in more than thirty years Gold finds himself truly tempted, more so than anything magic had ever promised him, because although it’s so tempting to believe, it _can’t_ be this easy.

Monsters don’t get happily ever after’s.

But Belle, brave, beautiful Belle who with nothing more than a sheer force of will and a pure soul took a monster and taught him how to feel againr pins him with those eyes that looked into him and saw a his soul even when he believed he didn’t have one and says, voice firm but so kind, “Of course it is. We want to be together, so we will.” And then she smiles, an ironic quirk of her lips as she says, her voice making truths out of her words, “This is us, deciding our fate.”

And Gold gives in, because he’s many things, but first and foremost he’s a greedy bastard, and if Belle is willing to take him than he’ll not say no again. It probably won’t be that easy-they’ll fight and they’ll disagree, and magic and the Queen will only make that worse, but they’ll also make up and they’ll have each other, and Rumpelstiltskin knows that will make it all worth it.

This is his second chance, and he’d not have it any other way

“I don’t deserve you,” he says finally, voice soft, an acceptance but also a truth, as he strokes a hand down Rose’s soft cheek, “either of you.”

“Maybe not,” Belle says, but the smile threatens to split her face takes any sting out of her words, “but you’re stuck with both of us now.” And then, cheeky and pure _Belle_ , “Think you can handle that?”

“I’ll suffer through it, somehow,” he says, and she’s kind enough not to point out that the smile on his own face is suspiciously close to beaming.

“Git,” she volleys back good naturedly, happiness shinning from her eyes, before she’s clearly hit by a thought as she asks curiously, “Wait, if the curse broke, why are we still here?”

At that his smile dims, because his clever girl has asked the right question, and this is where the preverbal rubber really hits the road-this is the conversation he’s been fearing. But he promised, all those months ago that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes he did the first time round, and so he says, voice serious if slightly hesitant, “This isn’t like any other curse-it’s layered,” and here they share a moment of levity, the pleasure of an inside joke before he continues, “Emma only broke the top most layer.”

Belle nods at that, but Rumpelstiltskin can almost see the wheels in her clever little head spinning as she asks, voice still curious, but now verging on worry, “What aren’t you saying?”

“You aren’t going to like it,” he warns, stalling, because isn’t that the understatement of the year? He chose his power over her once already, and now he’s here again, about to restore magic only moments after he got her back.

Not the best argument to show her that he’s changed.

“Tell me anyways,” Belle says, because she always been too brave and too stubborn for her own good, and Rumpelstiltskin would have had more luck disobeying her if she’d held his dagger in her hands as he finds himself telling her, “We’ll never get home until magic is restored-that’s the next layer of the curse.”

“You’re right, I don’t like it,” Belle says after a long moment, a frown marring her beautiful face and for an agonizing second Rumpelstiltskin thinks that this is going to be the moment where he finally loses her.

But then she continues, voice earnest and soft, “But if you say it’s necessary then I trust you,” and once what she’s said registers, his heart starts beating again only for his breath to catch, because love is one thing but trust?

Trust is, in some ways, entirely more precious.

And at his look of what must be absolute shock, Belle smiles again, the gesture almost rueful as she nestles into his embrace and says, titling her eyes to meet his, “I learned from my mistakes too you know, and anyways, I promised you forever, remember?” and her voice so full of love and trust that really, there’s only one thing he can do.

He kisses her.

He kisses her because she forgives him, because she loves him, because she _trusts_ him.

He kisses her because she’s _Belle_ , and he’s going to kiss her for the rest of his life, magic be damned.

Because this is true love, and this true loves kiss, and it means that they can- _will_ -do this.

To hell with monsters, this is his happily ever after, and he’ll never let it go, no matter what the future brings.

That in mind, he steps up and stands at the edge of the well, but he is not alone. His family stands with him, tucked into the crook of his arm, and they love him- _trust_ him-enough to do this with him.

And so, standing on the precipice of the unknown, Rumpelstiltskin smiles.

Forever, she’d said, all those years ago, and he finally believes it.

Finally, he is brave.

He drops the vial.

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

 _“True love never lives happily ever after – true love has no ending.”_ \- K. Knight

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

FIN

OUATOUATOUATOUATOUATOUAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So that’s the end of our tale folks! No, seriously. *Runs and hides from angry mob.* Ok so, there might end up being a sequel in the future (tentatively titled This Blossoming Rose) but this is all I’ve got for now. I prefer to write around the lines of canon; the road not taken, such as it were, which I can’t do without a road in the first place. This story for me was always going to end as a modified-babyfied, if you’d prefer-canon, and there’s a reason for that. 
> 
> Mostly, it’s because in reading a lot of the post finale fanfiction, I realized that I had a different feeling than most shippers about Gold’s actions in the finale. Most shippers seemed to feel that Gold had done an unequivocally bad thing- choosing his power over everything and most fanfiction I read was about fixing this by giving him a noble reason. Which is a totally valid viewpoint, and it prompted some awesome fic, but for me, I saw the clock move and went-oh, so this is a good thing. Yes, maybe he did it for selfish reasons, maybe not or maybe both-I’m not sure, but I do think that whatever the reason, it was necessary to help break the curse. Additionally, I also think that just focusing on blaming Gold doesn’t give Belle enough credit; I think her interactions with Grumpy/Leroy show that’s she’s grown enough as a character to realize that she made a mistake as well, and that she can give him the benefit of the doubt. This was also why there is no Baelfire reunion in this fic; they haven’t done it in the show yet. Ok, so excessively long explanation/rant over, but I hope in doing so I didn’t disappoint people who were hoping for a more AU ending-although to be fair I did actually mention this in the first chapter’s notes!
> 
> But I do have several snippets in the works from this universe (which I’ve decided to call the This Rose universe), including Belle’s POV for remembering, some more Henry and Grace/Paige, as well as why Jefferson still helped Regina so please go check those out when they’re eventually posted. Also, Belle punching Rumpelstiltskin in the face was inspired by a comment by lunas_borednow that said that it would be cool if Isobel found out he was the dad before she remembered and then punched him. It wasn’t where I was going with this, but the mental image of Belle cold-cocking Gold was too much to resist, and so, voila! The title is also a nod to the Star Trek episode “The City on the Edge of Forever.” Because I’m a geek. That said, thank you so much to everyone who stuck through with me to the end of this; your comments are reviews made this a joy to write. So, for the last time, I hope you enjoyed it, and as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, I was reading some of the truly fantastic baby fic that already exists in this fandom (and really, it is awesome check it out) and this idea came to me. And now, apparently, I’m going to write multi-chaptered partially AU-partially canon baby Rumbelle fic. Oh well, here we go! As always enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


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